


Apple of My Eye

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Modeling, Morgana/Gwen - Freeform, Photography, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 14:49:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12914172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Arthur has just moved from Australia to the UK. He has a flat, a job, but he doesn't make much and he hasn't really made it. Then the improbable happens. Fashion photographer Merlin Emrys scouts him. That opens up a whole new world for him.





	Apple of My Eye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Candymacaron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candymacaron/gifts).



> To Candymacaron, happy holidays and a world of festive love with carols sounding and bells ringing. Of your prompts I chose the second, because I thought it a world of fun. All of them were quite lovely actually. I hope you enjoy my rendition, and that Merlin and Arthur put a smile on your face. So without further ado: your holiday gift.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta * for looking this over. Without you this couldn't have happened.

Merlin sets up the treadmill. He selects an average jogging speed and a moderate incline – he wants to work out, not kill himself. Putting headphones in his ears, he starts running to his music. He likes the treadmill. Merlin's built for running rather than weight lifting and it's the easiest activity he can indulge in here at the gym.

While he goes at it, he can forget about his thoughts, his thousand engagements, and just people watch. Sometimes when someone arrives – someone with an expressive face, or with a stark body, that would look good in a particular light, at dawn or dusk, or with some studio clamshell lighting – Merlin likes to think of in terms of a shot. He likes to choose the type of lens and the kind of exposure that works best. He loves underexposed pictures with blocked shadows. It's just something that he likes to do to faces, to highlight the light parts. 

More often than not, Merlin does nothing with his imaginings. These pictures are not what he's paid for. Magazine editors don't want him to take photos of common people, normal people. They want him to use his know-how to create glamour out of thin air. 

He's wiping sweat from his brow when a new group of patrons enters. They're all in their twenties and fairly muscular, but one of them stands out. His hair is golden, his skin sun-kissed. His body seems to be ideal – at least to Merlin – and there's something about his face, what Merlin can see from here, that's charming too. 

Merlin can already picture him in various poses, against different backdrops. The possibilities are endless, and Merlin would love to try all of them. His mere presence fires Merlin up with ideas, gets him to create scenarios. He's just something else.

The man goes and sits at the pectoral machine. He braces his arms out and then pulls inwards. His biceps bulge and his trapezius muscles contract.

It's a sight for sore eyes. The man's build is perfect. His sinews have definition without bulging too much. They look natural, not fed by steroids, and Merlin can't help but look, entranced. 

Merlin's still got twenty minutes to go out of his forty minute routine, but he stops the treadmill with a push of the CLEAR button. He slings a towel around his neck and he goes over to the guy. 

“Hi,” Merlin says, “you seem to be doing well.”

“It's my routine,” the guy says, pushing the handles of the machine together. His accent isn't local, most likely some brand of Australian. “Three sets of fifteen.”

Merlin notices the man was no show off. He's moving forty kilos, which, for his bulk, seem manageable. “Have you ever been told that you look good working out?”

The man continues with his reps but laughs. He doesn't refrain from giving Merlin a careful once over, a head to foot one, but whatever he thinks of him doesn't transpire. “Not as such, no.”

Merlin realises now that he might be coming across as sleazy, but he's told the man nothing but the truth. He looks good working out, which is decidedly not true of everyone. Most people grunt, grimace and get red in the face. Not this man. This man looks like he was made for this place. He's a walking advertisement. “Well, people are blind.” Merlin looks down. It's the make it or break it moment, he knows this. “Look, my name's Merlin Emrys,” Merlin says, hoping his name will ring a bell. He realises it doesn't quite soon after, when the man's face stays blank. “I'm a fashion photographer and I'd like to shoot you.” He'd love to do it now, in the heat of the moment. He'd love to show this man intent in his work out, to crystallise the moment of effort, the physicality of the action. He's partial to the idea of bodies in movement more than anything else. But he has no equipment with him, no camera, no lenses, no tripods. He almost always has his photo apparatus with him, but not when he's at the gym, where he goes to wind down and think of nothing. “I hope we can set up an appointment.” 

The man finishes his reps and laughs. “You're having me on, mate.”

Merlin's scouted people before. He's used to the initial incredulity, to the resistance. Nobody ever thinks they're going to hew a career out of a chance meeting. And, to be honest, hoaxers and posers abound. More often than not, all promises of a modelling job are fake and come from people that have got nothing to do with fashion or the world built around it. That's why he's less outraged than he should be when the man doubts his word. “Not at all. I want to photograph you and I'm a pro.”

“Pull the other one, mate,” the man says, his accent getting heavier, perhaps in combination with some rising irritation. 

“I'm the real deal, I assure you.” Merlin doesn't know how to convince the man of the veracity of his proposition. “I don't have them on me right now--,” active wear doesn't exactly come with many pockets and receptacles, “--but my business cards are in my car.”

“In your car, right.” The man starts exercising again.

Merlin has little choice now. He can try to talk this man into believing him or offer some actual proof, however small. “Wait here.” 

He doesn't look back and makes a dash for his car, which his thankfully parked just outside the gym. He sinks into the driver seat and leans over so he can reach the glove box. In the glove box there's a road map, some old headphones, a pair of actual gloves, and a few leaflets. But of his business cards there's no trace. Knowing he'd better be quick and not lose his momentum, Merlin searches his car. He roots in the beverage seat wedge, in the side compartments, and under the seats. Under one of the latter he finds one of his old cards. It's creased and battered, but it's legible, which is all he's asking from it. The phone number is out of date, though. It's his old one. With a pen, Merlin crosses out the incorrect contact number and substitutes his current one.

So armed, he makes it back to the gym floor. The man has moved onto the pulley. He's sitting with his legs splayed, his feet braced. With his arms he's pulling a handlebar towards his chest. As he does, his arm muscles bulge. Yes, this man would be perfect for both sports ads and even subtler glamour shots.

With a tight knot in his throat, Merlin makes it to the man again. “I told you I had a card.”

The man continues with his exercise, gaze lost in the distance. He's heard, though, because he replies, “You can print a hundred of those for a tenner.”

While that might theoretically be true, the statement doesn't fail to outrage Merlin. He isn't a creep. He wouldn't lie as to his identity. He's about to say as much, when Percival, the gym's trainer, comes over.

“Is he bothering you, Arthur?” he asks of the man Merlin had been addressing all this time.

Arthur, that seems to be the bloke's name, shrugs while trying to hold on to his form. “He's telling tall tales.”

Percival turns towards Merlin with a raised eyebrow. “Sir?”

Merlin shrinks in on himself, not so much because Percival with his six foot four is intimidating – though he is, but because he sees he hasn't been believed. Because Merlin likes to keep it on the down low, Percival doesn't know what he does for a living. Merlin only goes to the gym to wind down, not to discuss his day job and be encumbered by the worries of it. This means he has an easy gym time, but the price is that Percival, although knowing him, can't vouch for him. Merlin can protest as much as he wants, he'll never get Arthur to see the truth. Not wanting to bother Arthur or trouble Percival any further, Merlin decides it's wiser to beat a retreat. “Keep the card,” he tells Arthur. “And ring me should you change your mind.”

 

Going by his expression at parting, Arthur won't. But Merlin can at least say he's tried. He goes to the treadmill with his hopes just a little bit shattered, though.

 

**** 

Arthur is leafing through a glossy car magazine when Morgana comes in with a lot of designer bags hanging from her arm. “Oh you're here,” she says, putting her purchases down on the kitchen table. “I need your help.”

Arthur somehow dreads the words. It's not that he doesn't want to lend a hand to his sister. It's just that she always embroils him in some unpleasant task under the guise of asking for help. More than a little suspicious, he lifts an eyebrow and asks, “What kind?”

“It's cousin Ranulf's birthday next week.”

Though he hasn't forgotten, Arthur pretends he has. “Is it?”

“Yes.” Morgana places her hands on one of the bags. “And I've got him a little something...”

Eyeing her spoils, Arthur says, “You know we can't afford that type of stuff.”

“I just need you to model a little something for me.” Morgana pouts, which is unfair. The expression is as comical as it is pitiful, but it works every time on Arthur. 

“Morgana...”

“It's Ranulf's present. I got him a jumper.” She sounds happy, content with her choice. Considering that she just loves shopping, getting people things she's seen on some kind of mag or other, that's only natural. “You're roughly the same size as him. If it fits you, it'll fit him.”

“What's with people and modelling?” Arthur says, standing up because he knows he'll try on the jumper Morgana's bought. “People's interest in it is so weird.”

“Not weirder that your interest in cars.” Morgana takes the jumper out of its wrapper. “Besides, what makes you say that?”

Arthur thinks back to the morning. Today was his first day at the gym. What with moving and everything, he'd gone a month without and by then his body had protested the ill treatment something fierce. “I went to Perce's gym today–you know, the guy I met at Rovers'–and a bloke came up to me with a strange story.”

“Careful not to take off the tag.” Morgana passes him the jumper. Once she's ensured he won't damage the product, she goes back to their conversation. “What strange story?”

Arthur sticks his head in the jumper's neck hole and pulls at the wool. “He said his name was Merlin, which, argh-_” Who goes and names their children Merlin? No one, that's who. It's a made up name. “And that he was a fashion photographer of some sort.” He pats the jumper down and shakes off Morgana's fussing. “He said he wanted to take photos of me. Wanted an appointment and blah, blah, blah.”

At the mention of photos, Morgana stops paying attention to the jumper's fit and cocks her head. “What did you say his name was?”

“Merlin something.” Arthur has no idea why Morgana is fixating on that detail. The name is a farce. “I don't actually remember.”

Morgana leaves him standing there in the middle of the living room while she darts back into her own bedroom. Arthur doesn't know whether he should keep the jumper on or take it off, whether Morgana's satisfied with the fit or she isn't. Sounds come from her bedroom, ominous sounds. Drawers are being opened and furniture is being shifted around. Eventually Arthur hears Morgana shout 'Gotcha!', and then she's back into their shared living room, carrying with her a pile of her own magazines.

She unloads them on the kitchen table and starts rifling through them with febrile hands. They're all glossy, full of ads, and containing very few articles. At last, she lands on a spread. The caption reads: “The Man Behind All the Tops.” Posing centre stage is a man sitting against a grey background. He wears a black turtle neck, black trousers, and black suede shoes. Even his watch has a black leather band. In the photo, his eyes shine an intense blue, a five o'clock shadow covers his chin, and his expression makes him look very mysterious, very powerful. It's also unmistakably Merlin, aka the guy Arthur met at the gym. There's no confusing those high cheekbones or that fluffy hair. “It's him,” Arthur tells Morgana, pointing. “It's definitely him.”

Morgana arches an eyebrow. “You met Merlin Emrys.”

Presented with a truth Arthur cannot deny, he says, “I did.”

“And he offered you a job?” Morgana is starting hyperventilating.

“No.” Arthur doesn't think Merlin did or he'd have remembered. “He said he wanted to take some photos of me and--” Arthur roots into his pocket. “--he gave me his card.”

Morgana snatches it from him and holds it close to her nose. Her vision is perfect; she's just being theatrical. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh...”

“God, yes,” Arthur says. “I know.”

Still staring at the business card, Morgana grabs his arm, and pinches hard. “One of the most famous fashion photographers of our time asks if he can photograph you and you say no?”

Arthur goes over what happened. He didn't exactly say no. “I just didn't answer. I didn't believe him.” Arthur had thought Merlin just wanted a date and had found an obnoxious way to ask for one. Given that he wasn't all that bad looking Arthur would have probably said yes if not for the strange tale Merlin had come up with. His odd approach had made Arthur tag him as a fantasist looser or a sad creepster. “How could I have known he was telling the truth? I mean, what are the odds?”

“In short you brushed him off?” Morgana is getting rather red in the face. “You turned down Vuitton's favourite photographer?”

Arthur's shoulder collapse. “Look, it sounded all rather improbable at the time. What did you want me to do?” He sighs. “Anyway what's done's done.”

Morgana waves her arms about in the air. “What no!” The words come out as a screech. “He's given you his card. There's an address. You're going and getting that job.”

Arthur rattles out a long breath. “Look, Morgana, he didn't offer me a job. He said he wanted to take pictures or something of the kind.”

“That's more than enough, Arthur,” Morgana tells him. “In the fashion world one thing leads to another.”

Arthur walks over and turns the telly on. There's no football on and no other interesting programme airs. But the noise coming from it is enough to drown out Morgana's rant. 

“Are you listening to me?” Morgana follows him to the living area, standing between the sofa and the TV set. “This is a great opportunity!”

Arthur gesticulates with the remote. Changing channel doesn't even work because Morgana's blocking the signal. “Opportunity for what?”

“For a job!” She sounds as though she thinks Arthur's particularly dim.

“I have a job.” Arthur cranes his neck to see if he can make out the telly screen in spite of Morgana. He can see the edges of it and some blurs of colour, not enough to get what's going on. “At the pub, remember.”

“Which scarcely makes enough for us to stay in England,” Morgana says, her lips thinning, her eyes getting a haunted look. “You don't want a deportation letter, do you?”

“We're not in danger.” Arthur means to work hard. If the job at the pub doesn't work out, he has other opportunities lined up. Should they fail, he'll try his utmost to make sure he has something to fall back on. He doesn't want to go back to Australia now. He likes London. He wants to stay. “Don't worry, Morgana.”

“Sorry, I keep worrying.” She doesn't come across as particularly regretful. “But if you have a chance at modelling...”

“Now you're day dreaming.” Even if Arthur had agreed to meeting this Merlin person, a job wouldn't have been the direct consequence of it. Thinking that he would get one after he'd slighted Merlin is even more preposterous. He is more likely to get kicked out. “I never had a chance at modelling and even if I did, I'm not interested.”

Morgana makes a noise low in her throat. She bites her lip, and slowly, very slowly arches an eyebrow. “Do you know how much you'd get if you got hired?”

Arthur has no idea. He's never been interested in the fashion world. Besides, this is all nonsense. Morgana's seeing possibilities where there are none. “It's immaterial. I'd never get really hired.”

“Will you do me a favour?” Morgana's voice goes gentler. She's addressing Arthur in a tone she never really uses with him. It's as if she's allowed all her weaknesses to come to the fore, as though she's letting herself be vulnerable in his presence. The last time that happened was when her first girlfriend dumped her back when she was fifteen. “Will you at least go and try?”

“Morgana.” He utters her name in a low warning burr.

“Pretty please?” She sticks her lip out and her eyes go round. “For me?”

There's no other word for it; Arthur is doomed.

 

**** 

Elena is a great model. She gives him range, she gives him glamour; her photos come alive. The same cannot be said of Cenred. He's as handsome as they come. His features are all classically arranged and in real life he exudes a bad boy vibe that can be alluring. But when it comes to modelling, he just falls flat. He fails to communicate any feeling, any vibe. He doesn't sell Merlin any emotion. But, then again, Merlin knows that beauty isn’t just something you're born with. It's something you create, you mould, you fan and express through photography. Cenred doesn't let him work with anything but the raw material. He doesn't take the leap.

Merlin doesn't even need to check the photos to know that the shoot his half bust. Still he's committed to getting a few usable pictures out of this adventure.

“Elena, lean on Cenred,” he says, addressing the dynamic part of this duo. “Put your hand on his shoulder.” He clicks away at them both. “Cenred, look at Elena as if she hung the moon.”

Cenred of course looks at her as though she's his granny from the country. 

Merlin sighs, moving so he can capture another angle. If Cenred doesn't do the job, maybe the lighting will.

Merlin is about to shoot another photo, this one with the light behind his subjects, when the phone buzzes. Normally Merlin wouldn't take it. When he's at work he needs the utmost concentration; he needs to keep his focus. But today he doesn't need anything. He's taken enough pictures he can make do and hopefully he can photoshop Cenred into some semblance of presence. “Erm, that's all for today,” he says. “I'll send you the pictures to you so you can see the final effects.”

Cenred and Elena move to the dressing rooms to take off their make up. Merlin picks up the phone.

“There's a young man here wanting to see you,” Mary says. “I'd have sent him away but he's got one of your business cards and there's your writing on it.”

Merlin has an inkling he knows what Mary's talking about, but he wants to be certain. “Describe him.”

“Tall, blonde, dreamy,” Mary tells him. 

Merlin remembers him all right. He's the bloke from the gym, the one that made an impression on him. Though Merlin has written him off as impossible, it's hard to forget him. “Let him in, Mary.”

A minute later, Arthur from the gym enters. His clothes aren't anything Merlin's used to. He's not wearing any designer clothing nor is he sporting the usual model uniform of a plain shirt and jeans. His tee is not at all plain. It's a football jersey paired with a pair of multi pocketed cargo trousers. His feet are encased in a pair of white Converse. He couldn't look less like a model if he tried. When he sees Merlin, he says, “I hope I'm not disturbing.”

“No, I asked you to come.” Though Arthur doesn't look like a model right now, Merlin's inordinately glad to see him. He still sees the potential in him. Besides, if he's decided to try his luck and come, that means Arthur didn't think him too much of a weirdo. That pleases Merlin immensely. “May I ask what changed your mind?”

Arthur ruffles his hair; he inadvertently makes it stand up and it's very endearing. “My sister is apparently a fan of yours.”

“Your sister.” Merlin laughs. It figures that Arthur wouldn't have come if left to his own devices. He didn't sound too impressed yesterday. “Well, thank her on my behalf. I'm very glad she convinced you to come.”

“So, er.” Arthur sidles from foot to foot. “What did you want me to do?”

“I want you to sit for me.” Merlin thinks it's better to lay his plan down so as not so scare Arthur off. He wants to be very clear and very honest about the process. “It's all going to be rough shod considering we have little preparation, but if you trust me--” Merlin does have plans. “--you're going to be at the centre of an impactful photo shoot.

“A photo shoot?” Arthur asks. Then as if he's come to terms with the notion, he says. “Well, alright.”

Merlin picks up the phone. “Freya, can you come here? Yes, yes. I need you to do a model's make- up.”

When Freya arrives with her boxes of make-up, Arthur looks at her as though she's got two heads. A little demure by nature, Freya blushes and hugs the box to her rather protectively. Aware he's hurt Freya's feelings, Arthur takes a step forward, but Freya's arsenal clearly daunts him.

“Freya is an excellent make-up artist,” Merlin says for both of their benefits. “Please, Freya do something simple with him.” That's what Merlin noticed in the first place while at the gym. Arthur au naturel. And that's what he wants people to see. They'll be as struck as he was. “I want his true self to shine.”

Freya nods while Arthur rounds his shoulders defensively. “Is make-up necessary? I mean I don't--”

“Some of it is.” Merlin agrees with Arthur in wanting him to stay as close to his every day self as possible. They can go wild with him once he has become established, once he needs to shake up his image and show how versatile he is. For now, they only need Arthur to be as much of himself as possible. That's who Merlin liked when he first saw him. “You don't want your skin to look too shiny or too matte under the lighting. It's a photog thing, don't worry.”

“If you're sure.” Arthur doesn't move; he's quite rooted to the spot. “I've only ever used sunscreen.”

“Positive.” Merlin has actually never been here before. Most of his subjects are aspiring models who'd go through hell and back just to have him shoot them. If Merlin asked them, they'd come back wearing harlequin make-up. They'd be punks and trolls, seventeenth century ladies, and pixies. “Freya's magic with a brush. Trust her.”

“Oh and Frey,” Merlin tells her. “Get him to change into something else, will you?” They have no stylist on board now. The one that did Cenred and Elena packed her bags before their shoot begun. She's a busy bee and had another appointment. Merlin doesn't care much. Arthur'll look good in anything provided it's not his native clothing. Cargo trousers are a definite no. Merlin can even make do with the Converse. “Something simple.”

As Freya packs Arthur into the backroom for his make-up session, Merlin checks up on his equipment. His laptop is up and running and open to the right programme. Light stands, umbrella heads and reflectors are in place. The screens are standing and so are the tripods. He's actually all set. It was rather lucky that Arthur got here just at the end of Elena and Cenred's shoot.

When Arthur comes back with a smiling Freya in tow, he looks gorgeous. Not that he doesn't look great all the time. Merlin has an eye for lookers and Arthur's surely one of them. But Freya did her job rather well. Her make up is so light, it doesn't do anything to alter Arthur's naturally noble features. Exchanging the cargo trousers for basic – though Armani – jeans and a dark blue shirt has done wonders for highlighting his physique. The jeans hug him in the right places and the shirt brings out his eyes. The beauty of Freya's makeover is that it's no makeover; she hasn't changed a thing about Arthur. He's as he would look on a night out with friends. It's an easy style that fits their new model to a T. 

“All right,” Merlin says, feeling he's got to put Arthur at his ease. “Why don't we start with something easy?”

Arthur arches an eyebrow. “Just share your definition of easy.”

Merlin can see that Arthur needs more guidance. As Freya goes for the day, Merlin starts giving Arthur instructions. “Why don't you stand against the window?” He wants to use as much natural light as possible. Arthur is the type to shine the best in it. “Right there, yeah.”

 

“Like this?” Arthur's pose is awkward, with his shoulders slumped and his his hand in his pocket. He shuffles about without striking any single pose. 

That's not exactly what Merlin had in mind but he knows he has to guide Arthur through it, help him find a way to express himself. “That's okay, Arthur, but I want a little more attitude.”

Arthur looks confused, at a loss. When he's himself and not posing, he oozes charisma. He has a don't fuck with me vibe. He looks self-assured and confident. But when he's posing all that goes away. “Attitude? Isn't that bad?”

Merlin looks at Arthur through the lenses. “Not on camera. It's all make believe anyway.”

“Is it?” Arthur asks, straightening as he asks the question. “Then what's the point?”

“Creating beauty.” Merlin has a quick answer because he's often thought about it. “Sharing something. Communicating.”

Arthur holds his head back; his pose becomes more natural, more neutral. “Well, maybe you do all that behind that camera of yours. But what does the subject do but stand there?”

“Oh models can do a lot.” Merlin clicks away as Arthur moves. He shifts about to one side then the other only to front the camera with both hands in his pockets. “They help sell the message.”

“But what do they do?” Arthur takes his hands out of his pockets and crosses his arms. He's doing a good job of changing poses without being told. 

“My best models--” Merlin signals Arthur to turn a little. “--tell tales with their eyes.”

“Do they?” Arthur looks curious, with his head tilted to the side and a little crease between the eyebrows. “But it's all entirely coincidental. They just look one way and it seems as though they're saying something, but it's just their resting pose.”

Merlin keeps shooting. “If I told you to look happy, what would you do?”

Arthur gives him an unnatural grin. “This. Dunno.”

“But if I told you you're smiling like Pluto the dog right now?” 

Arthur bursts out laughing with his head thrown back, his eyes glinting, and his hair dancing over his forehead. His arms are up as if he wants to clap his hands to his face. Right in that moment Arthur looks beautiful, young and care-free. Merlin takes as many shots as he can, memorialising this moment, this expression. 

What he sees makes his heart beat a little bit faster, a little bit more out of synch, and he knows this is the magic moment, the moment he connects with his subject, the instant an image becomes more. 

Merlin continues talking to Arthur. Sometimes he makes him laugh, and the fact that he can makes Merlin feel inordinately good. Sometimes he asks Arthur to strike a pose, guiding him through the various steps of it. He doesn't want anything theatrical or fake, anything too elaborate. He wants Arthur to joke around and be himself. .

Merlin looks forward to seeing the results on his laptop. He's sure the photos he's taking will need no airbrushing and just the routine kind of retouching. He'll work on light and saturation, not on Arthur. 

They joke on for a while longer. Merlin shoots more photos than he probably needs. He's got so many different pictures of Arthur he should probably stop taking them. He's only making his job harder when it comes to choosing. But he doesn't want to. He's bantering away with Arthur, doing what he likes with a bloke he thinks fantastic. He has no reason to want to stop. He's in photographer heaven.

Arthur asks him, “Should I stand like this?” He's got his legs planted wide apart, his shoulders are up and his hands are on his hips. 

“Yeah.” Merlin takes a snap. “Why don't you cross your arms and look into the distance?”

Arthur complies and Merlin captures the moment in a few shots.

By then, he has hundreds of pictures of Arthur. He lowers his camera and says, “We're done for today.”

Arthur's face sobers. “That's all?”

“Yes.” Merlin puts down the camera. “I've got everything I need.”

“Oh.” Arthur's shoulders slope.

“If you give me your phone number,” Merlin says, “I'll contact you.”

Arthur manages a small smile that ticks up one side of his lips. “Thank you, yeah.” He recites the number.

Merlin notes it down in his phone. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“I, er.” Arthur ducks his head. “I had a nice time of it.” He looks up from under his blonde fringe. “I didn't believe it'd work out, but it did.”

Merlin's aware of emotion touching his insides. He doesn't know how to name it, whether it's pride or satisfaction, but he feels it and it's nearly overwhelming. “I'm glad I could exceed your expectations.”

Arthur extends his hand to shake. “Thank you for the experience.”

Merlin holds Arthur's hand for a second longer than is probably necessary, but then again Arthur does nothing to shake him off. “Good bye, Arthur.”

“Mr Emrys,” Arthur says.

“Merlin.” Merlin corrects him quickly. He doesn't think they've stood on formality so far and he doesn't want to start now.

“Good bye, Merlin.” Arthur lowers his head again.

“Good bye, Arthur,” Merlin says, though he doesn't want to part from Arthur quite yet. But he must. He already started on the wrong foot. Now that he's got more of a rapport with Arthur, he doesn't want to endanger it with his behaviour. Whatever wayward thoughts he may have on occasion, he wants to be nothing less than a consummate professional. It's his mainstay, the rule he governs his life by. “It's been a pleasure.”

**** 

The pub Arthur works at is very traditional with wooden counters and panelling, wooden benches, and plush armchairs placed in front of chimney pieces that nurture real flames. The bar is generally always crowded but today there's a pool championship going on so most patrons are milling around the tables in the wing rooms rather than busy ordering.

Arthur's polishing the counter with a rag when Morgana and Owain come in. Morgana has more shopping bags, of which Owain is carrying some.

“You can't afford any of that,” Arthur points out as she puts her bags on the counter. “And get these off.”

With an eyeroll Morgana removes her bags, placing them on the floor. “Once you've got your new job, I'll be able to buy whatever I want.”

“That's assuming I would give you any of my prospective earnings.” Arthur loves to tease Morgana whenever he can. 

“Of course you would,” Morgana says. “You're my dear brother, the future top model.”

“Top model?” Owain tilts his head. “What's this all about?”

“Nothing,” Arthur answers as he polishes the counter with his wet rag. “I didn't get any job.” If Morgana hadn't got his hopes up, he would never thought he had a snowball's chance in hell of ever getting gainful employment from his escapade. But she did fuel his optimism and now, though not exactly disappointed, he's feeling ill at ease with himself, if only because he half listened to her. “Morgana was fantasising.”

“What?” Morgana slaps a hand down on the counter Arthur's just polished, leaving an imprint on it that Arthur will have to clear away. “But you went!”

“Yes, I did.” Arthur listened to Morgana and the embarrassment he feels now is the exact consequence of that action.

“And he didn't sign you up for an L.A shoot or whisk you up to Paris for fashion week?”

“Fashion's week has passed,” Owain put in, casually putting nuts in his mouth.

Morgana and Arthur look at Owain then redirect their attention to each other. She hikes her eyebrows up and an inquisitive glint shines in her eye. Not one to back down, Arthur's looking at her directly, not letting off on this battle of wills. 

“He just took a few shots.” At first, Arthur hadn't even known where to put his limbs. It's one thing to take pics among friends, another to have a pro snapping away at you. By and by, however, Arthur found it easier; before long, he'd completely forgotten the camera and started talking with Merlin for real. It hadn't been unpleasant. Rather the contrary. “It's clear he never meant to do anything more than that.”

“But--” Morgana says, before being interrupted.

A girl comes up with a double order of cider and Arthur serves her while Morgana glares at him. Once the girl has gone away with her tray, Arthur busies himself cleaning the base around the tap handles. He then polishes the levers and checks the kegs.

Morgana cracks first. “But he invited you to his place.”

“You make it sound so tawdry, Morgana.” Arthur had thought Merlin had other interests too at first. When he'd approached him at the gym, he'd certainly thought he was trying for a hook up. But then, during the shoot, he was nothing but professional. Arthur had at first considered it a change, but then he understood that Merlin had had his eyes on his job all along. He is nothing but a committed photographer. “It was nothing of the kind.”

“A professional photographer never takes photos just for a lark!” Morgana says, nodding to herself as though she's buying her own statement. “It's a rule!”

Owain makes a noise as if to contradict her. It goes to his credit that he's actually trying to, though he's not vocalising his thoughts fully. Morgana can be scary when she wants. 

Arthur goes to his rescue; he owes him for the feeble attempt. “Well, this one did. He took oodles of photos but he never once mentioned a job, nor did he have any contract on stand-by. It was all very nice and dandy--” He's now being sarcastic, but it really was okay. Arthur had, god forbid, fun. “But there was no job offer.”

“Are you sure you didn't stop him from talking about it?” Morgana asks. “You can be very off- putting when it's all about honour and proper behaviour.”

“I'm sure.” They may have started off on the wrong foot, but when they were together, with Arthur sitting for Merlin, it was all very nice. Arthur has no other word for it. “You were imagining things.”

“No contract?”

“No?”

“No job offer?”

“No.”

Morgana's smile simmers into nothingness. “Oh.”

Arthur says, “Yes, oh.”

Caught in this conflict of stares, Owain says, “How about I buy you all a drink, bury the hatchet?”

They all drink to lost opportunities.

 

*****

Merlin pays the cabbie and exits the taxi. It's raining hard, with rivulets of water running along the pavement and splashing into manholes. Since he has no umbrella, he flips up the collar of his mac. It's a serviceable enough garment, though one he's never worn before. It came with a batch of Burberry items that were gifted to him a while ago, after he'd been charged with their Autumn/Winter campaign. 

Briefcase in had, Merlin passes the revolving doors of the Shard, taking an escalator up and then the lift. The guards manning the metal detector on the fifteenth floor know him by sight. Once he's scanned his briefcase they wave him through.

New Models Inc. has offices in the west side of the fifteenth's floor right wing. Merlin passes a set of white-lacquered doors and is inside a stylish anteroom. The sofas are in the shape of clouds and come in the same colour. Along the walls hang life-size head shots of clients, men and women, blonde models and dark-haired models, famous and less famous subjects. 

Merlin recognises some as his own handiwork. He likes taking headshots: when he does he's trying to bring out something in his subjects, their verve, their personality, their spirit. Most of the time those young men and women have something to say for themselves. Merlin enjoys sharing that with the world, helping them on their path to self expression.

 

One of the young receptionists, smiles wide at him. “Mr. Emrys, what a pleasure to have you here!”

 

“Likewise, Kara, likewise.” Then looking around at the closed doors he asks, “Tell me is Ms. Smithson here?”

 

Kara nods. “You're lucky; her ten thirty was cancelled.”

“Could you announce me?” Merlin asks, hoping Kara will comply. “I know I should have warned you, but I have a lot on my hands and...” With a campaign to shoot for Bulgari, Merlin's been up to his neck in work. After a week spent in Rome, he landed yesterday in London--a little worse for wear, a little stressed out--and this is the first opportunity he's had to tackle this other matter. As much as it lies close to his heart, he just hasn't been able to look into it till now. “I apologise for the impromptu visit, but I really need to see her.”

Kara pulls her phone closer. “Bless you, Mr. Emrys, you're the only one who's ever apologised to me for anything ever.” She lifts the receiver. “I'll see what I can do.” She shifts her attention to the conversation she's just started. “Yes, Ms. Smithson, I have Mr. Emrys here. Yes, yes, of course.” She hugs the receiver to her chest. “You can go in.”

“Thank you.” Merlin mimes the words, before turning around and directing his steps towards Gwen's office. Knocking on the door, he waits for an answer. When nobody answers, he opens a notch and says, “May I?”

Gwen starts from behind her desk, comes over, and hugs him. “Of course you may. You're my favourite photographer.”

Merlin returns the hug. “I bet you say that to all photographers.”

She guides him to the chair opposite her desk before sinking into her own seat. “I don't and you know it.” She takes a sip from the mug she's got at her side. “So what brings you here?”

Bending over, Merlin picks up his briefcase and opens it. He takes the stack of 3.5 × 8.1s and slides it over to Gwen.

She picks them up and observes the top photograph. Her brow creases and she takes a look at the second, then the third. Before long, she's studying the whole bunch. Once she's done with her scrutiny, she starts again from the top. “Who's this model? I don't remember seeing him anywhere.”

Oh but Merlin's been waiting for this. “You haven't because he's not signed with anyone.”

“Isn't he?” Gwen scrunches her nose. “Strange.”

“He wasn't trying to be a model at all,” Merlin says by way of explanation. “He's a bloke I met at the gym.”

“He photographs well.” Gwen takes a sneaky look at the top picture. 

“He does and he's just as good looking in the flesh.” With all the digital retouching going on in this day and age, Merlin wants Gwen to know that.

“Glad you found such a brilliant subject,” Gwen says, tossing her ringlets. “But what brings you to me?”

Merlin has an inkling Gwen suspects already. They've known each other such a long time that she must be able to predict all his actions and suss out his intentions well before he shows his hand. Still this is worth more than a try. Merlin is determined. “I want you to take him on.”

“Merlin.” Gwen crosses one hand on top of the other. “You know that's impossible.”

“Why?” Merlin can tell she's fully booked. She has a complement of models for every occasion. But that doesn't mean she cannot make way for one more. “Representing one more model won't change a thing.”

“Merlin, you scouted him off the street.” Her fingers twitch. “He's good looking and takes a good photo. But I'm not sure he can do much else.”

Merlin isn't sure either. “That's not all that important.”

“Can he walk?” Gwen asks.

Merlin suspects Arthur can't. “He can be an editorial model. He wouldn't be the first.”

Gwen pushes her lips outwards, moving her mouth sideways. “How does he do on video?”

Merlin hasn't tried that with Arthur, but he knows how to get places in this industry. “He does great.”

Arranging a ringlet behind her ear, Gwen sighs. “I'm not sure. Scouting off the streets doesn't always work.”

“And sometimes it does,” Merlin says, counting off his fingers. “Gia Carano, Naomi Campbell, Candice Swanepoel. Do I go on?”

Gwen shakes her head. “No, but--” 

The phone rings. Gwen apologises and takes the call. She's very friendly with whoever is on the line. She's discussing an event in Tokyo, which she wants to work out splendidly. She's committed, she reassures the person on the other end of the line. Yes, there will be absolutely no problem. By the time she's done talking, she's all smiles. With a toss of her hair, she replaces the earring she removed when she lifted the receiver, and then her attention's on Merlin again. “Look, Merlin, you work magic on our models.” She gestures with her hands, flattening them on her desk. “And you certainly have an eye for beauty, for that je ne sais quoi that makes a top. But I'm not sure--”

Catching the drift, Merlin says, “I'm ready to vouch for him.”

“You're taking a risk.” Gwen pushes up an eyebrow. 

Merlin moves his head from side to side. “No, I'm not.” There's a lot that Merlin needs to teach Arthur when it comes to fashion, but he's confident he can and Arthur's quick on the uptake. So while he's taking a gamble, certainly enough, it's not as much of a one as an outsider might think. The amount of uncertainty involved is a concept he wants to pass over. “I'm sure of him.”

“In that case,” Gwen says, activating her computer, “I'll sign him on.”

 

Once outside the building Merlin takes his mobile phone out. He dials with a grin on his face. “Arthur, it's Merlin Emrys. Yes, fine, fine. I have something to tell you.” He waits for Arthur's reply. By now Arthur clearly suspects something's up, so Merlin cuts it short. “I have found you an agency. You're now a bona fide model, Arthur.”

 

**** 

 

The house sits at the end of a long drive, surrounded by shrubbery on either side, a copse occupying the area that extends eastwards from it. It has a classical facade with seven bays in total distributed on two floors. The centre bay features a large central Venetian window dominating the ground floor; it's surrounded by a blind arch. Sash windows break up the stern block while ivy covers the lateral aspects. 

As their car, a black BMW X1, comes up, Arthur can see the vans parked close to the entrance. Aids carry equipment out of their backs and into the house in a continuous toing and froing. 

Arthur tells Morgana, “It's all very...”

“Sumptuous?” Morgana supplies. “Posh? Magnificent?” She seems to be on a roll.

“Yeah.” Arthur waits for the driver to open for the door for him. When he's out of the car and on his feet he gives his tee a pull. If Merlin had warned him, he would have worn something completely different, maybe not stylish according to these people's standards, but better. But Merlin had told him to come as he was. Nobody expected models to wear any label this early in the morning. “Just like Cabramatta.”

“Don't remind me of our origins.” Morgana puts a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for letting me come.”

“Don't thank me,” Arthur says, “Merlin said you could.”

As though mentioning him had summoned him, Merlin drives up. He's in a gun metal grey Porsche and at his side sits Ms. Smithson.

Morgana sidles close to Arthur, nudging him in the stomach with her elbow. “You didn't tell me he was good looking. And you didn't tell me his friend was so pretty.”

“Hands off.” Morgana had promised to be quiet and self-effacing. It looks as though she won't be. She's already making a fuss about Ms. Smithson. “That's my agent.” Arthur can scarcely believe he's got one. “So you're warned.”

Engine killed, Merlin and Ms. Smithson exit the car at the same. As they make their way towards Arthur, they laugh. Merlin stops by his side. “Arthur, great to see you. You look very good for this early in the morning.”

“He didn't actually sleep,” Morgana says, shouldering her way in the conversation. “That's why there's no puffiness around his eyes. He's not underslept.”

Merlin laughs.

Arthur makes the introductions. He doesn't want to. He wants to stomp over Morgana's foot; he wants to pack her off home. But she's insinuated herself, and he would look a bit rude and a bit strange if he didn't. “This my sister, Morgana.”

Merlin shakes her hand firmly.

Ms. Smithson dimples. “Did anyone ever tell you you have beautiful eyes?” Then she palms her cheeks and says, “Oh my god, I didn't mean to sound so forward. It's just the job. I'm so used to singling out people based on their features.”

“No worries.” Morgana veritably simpers as she shakes Ms. Smithson's hand. “I don't get complimented enough.” She frowns at Arthur. “My brother is very remiss.”

They move inside the house. It's a manor more than a common home. The hall is wood panelled, lacquered in white, and covered in mirrors. Venetian chandeliers hang from the ceiling. The marble staircase leads to a first floor subdivided in many rooms the biggest of which is a white- washed salon facing the garden. It's rococo in style with ornate, gilded chairs everywhere and floral wall paper encased by white wood panelling; a fresco in pastel colours on the ceiling represents shepherds in a rural setting. 

In the middle of the room is a round-edged bathtub with golden feet and taps. 

Freya and a gaggle of other people are waiting in the room. Some are talking to each other; others are fiddling with the lights and screens scattered around the rooms. Two lads are working on the wiring and one is bending over a laptop.

Freya and another woman come over to them. “We're ready when you're ready.”

“Arthur,” Merlin tells him, “I want you to go with these ladies and do what they tell you.”

Arthur knows what Freya's there for, but he has no idea what the other lady does. “So I should just follow them?”

“Yes.” Merlin puts a hand on his shoulder; it's warm and comforting, the imprint of it buoying. “You know Freya's got a bit of a magic touch and Sefa is great at styling. She'll make you look more of an Adonis than you already are.”

Arthur blushes inarrestably.

Morgana arches an eyebrow and says, “Now you'll puff his head up.”

“Uhm, I don't think so.” Merlin's gaze embraces Arthur. “Arthur seems quite down to earth.”

Freya and Sefa escort Arthur into another room. This one's smaller than the salon. It's got little furniture but the walls are covered in dark wainscoting which give a sense of fullness to the place. Freya sits Arthur in a make-up chair facing a mirror. “Tilt your head up.”

As Freya works on him, Sefa piles some clothing on another chair. Freya doesn't use that many products on him, but it's more than Arthur is used to.

“Don't tell me, you're one of those 'soap's-the- most-I-will-ever-use guys.”

Since he can't move his facial muscles without making Freya's job harder, he shrugs. 

“I'm just using some exfoliator, moisturiser, toner, and--” She brushes a brush around the contours of his facial bone-- “powder. You should learn to do some of this at home now you're modelling. Always keep your skin photoshoot ready.”

Arthur isn't sure he likes the idea of the burden of it.

When his make-up's done, he's sent over to Sefa.

“You can use the screen there to change,” Sefa tells him passing him a bunch of clothing. “Leave the shirt open.”

As he ducks behind the screen, Arthur peeps at the clothes he's supposed to wear. It's a pair of Calvin Klein briefs, a white shirt, and a pair of jeans. Arthur chucks his clothing and puts on the items he's been provided. As instructed, he doesn't button up his shirt. There are no socks or shoes, so he pads out barefoot.

“You look fantastic, babe,” Sefa says, when Arthur steps out from behind the screen. “A real model.”

Arthur's never felt less like one than now. While he's paraded with his shirt open before, that was at home or at the seaside. He doesn't particularly enjoying having the hem of his briefs showing above the waistline of his jeans, either, and he feels like an arsehole going about barefoot. Besides, he still doesn't know what to do or how he's got the job in the first place. He understands that Merlin saw something in him, but he has no idea what that something is, how he can let it show.

Not to mention this is a paid job, though he has no idea how much he's being given for this photoshoot. The very fact he's being remunerated means he can't bollocks it all up or he'll have wasted these people's time and money with his ineptitude. Fuck, he's just an ordinary bloke. 

He pads into the salon with his shoulders rounded inwards and his hands in his pockets. Merlin, who was bending over the screen of one of the laptops and looking at some kind of scale graded chart, turns around. He smiles when he sees Arthur and says, “You look truly terrific, Arthur.”

Arthur's sure that Merlin's just being nice now, that being his way in general, but the words put a warm glow inside him even if he knows them not to be true. Arthur realises he can be good looking enough when he puts an effort in it. On dates, he cleans up nicely. But this model thing goes above and beyond. Merlin's used to working with the most beautiful men and women on the planet. Arthur's not so vain as to think he ranks that high. 

Merlin picks up his camera with the ease of long use. It's a huge apparatus with a big lens. He tells Arthur, “Walk in front of the bathtub.”

Arthur moves in front of it. He's not sure what to do now. He supposes a weathered model would know, would act on instinct. But he's not a real pro and he has no clue. Morgana and Ms. Smithson gather at the end of the room, watching his every action. Normally, Arthur's prone to do well when Morgana's around if nothing else because of the sibling competition they have had since the cradle. But she's more in her element than he is and she must be able to spot his every mistake.

Merlin must have sensed that something's off with Arthur because he says, “Look at me. I want you to focus.”

Arthur wants to do well, too. He doesn't wish to disappoint the people who've hired him. Most of all, he doesn't want to let Merlin down. He's the one who got him here. “Yeah, focus, right.”

“Love the setting, don't you?” Merlin asks, a propos nothing. “The idea is you're lord of the manor.”

“Am I?” Arthur likes beautiful things. He'd love a place like this. Well, he'd have a footie pitch instead of a garden and fewer antiques, but he would definitely live in a place like this.

“Yes,” Merlin says, taking photos of him. “Show me some swagger. You've got it all, Arthur.”

Arthur sticks his chest out, pulls his head back from its duck, and acts as though he imagines the lord of this place would behave. 

Merlin continues to give him instructions, to talk to him, to trade jokes with him. Arthur finds it easier and easier to pose, to pretend he's the person Merlin is describing to him. When Merlin asks him to drop the shirt, the action comes easily. He preens; he brags a bit. He shows his body off. With Merlin there, it comes easy. At least he doesn't feel like a prick for doing so. He even mostly forgets that his sister and Ms. Smithson are there, and that Merlin's helpers are there, moving screens and reflectors about.

To him it's just him and Merlin. Merlin crouching, Merlin squatting, Merlin standing, always intent on taking a photo, the best photo from the best angle. Sometimes he goes and contorts himself into weird shapes to get the frame he wants. Arthur'd laugh at him, but he can see his commitment, his determination to make this shoot count. Arthur wants to contribute to that. He wants to help him.

“Can you take off your jeans now?” Merlin asks. “We need to show off the underwear. You should look pleased with wearing it; like it's second skin. You should be confident in your body, because those briefs really make you feel sexy.”

Arthur pulls his jeans down. “To be quite honest underwear doesn't make me feel sexy. I feel more like an idiot.” 

Merlin looks at Arthur with big eyes. He stops taking photos. “Secret is, you don't need underwear to feel sexy. It's up to you to feel that way. To own it all. The story we're telling is one thing. But it's not the point, Arthur. We're talking about the dream of you.”

“The dream of me?” Arthur's lips quirk. 

“People wanting to be just like you,” Merlin explains. “People wanting you. That's the idea we're conjuring here.”

“It's all a fantasy.” Arthur doesn't think he's bad looking. He's had relationships and a few of them lasted. He's not shy. But this is all different. It makes little sense.

“A dream is a bit of a fantasy, isn't it, Arthur?” Merlin asks him. “We're building on that. It doesn't necessarily have to be true.”

Arthur nods. He sees the point.

“The truth is, you've got it all. In spades. You're the closest thing to the dream I've ever met.” Merlin lifts the camera up. He's smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Share that with the world.”

Feeling energised by the words, Arthur chucks his jeans and poses for all that he's worth. What he's doing might be ephemeral and unimportant, but Merlin sees something in him and Arthur wants to match his expectations.

“Lean against the tub, Arthur,” Merlin says. “Body facing me, look away into the distance, frown a little if you can.”

“What am I looking at?” Arthur moves his mouth as little as possible so as not to ruin Merlin's shot “The wall?”

Merlin laughs; it comes deep from his chest. “Dunno. Think about doing your taxes or the meaning of life. I just need you to look pensive.”

Something prickles Arthur's tongue and he hears himself say, “I'll be thinking about you then.”

Merlin stumbles into a cable.

In spite of the setback, Merlin makes himself continue. He looks a little redder in the face, a little more hurried in his movements, but he still chivvies Arthur into poses he wouldn't have thought of, still directs the shoot with subtle hints while leaving Arthur free to try new things. 

In a couple of hours or so, the shoot is done and dusted.

Merlin shakes his hand. “It was a pleasure working with you, Arthur.”

Arthur doesn't know what the future will bring, whether he'll get any more shoots. He knows for sure he's not quitting his other job. But he can say in all honesty, “For me too.”

 

****

Arthur is watching telly, a re-reun of Sundays' formula 1 race, when the buzzer goes off. Arthur goes to answer and hears Merlin's voice. “Hi. I hope I'm not disturbing but I have something to tell you and I thought it would be better if I did so in person.”

“Come on up.” Arthur buzzes him in.

When the door opens on him, Merlin's wearing a smile and a leather jacket.

Arthur steps aside for him and lets him in. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Merlin wanders in with his hands in his pockets, looking around. “I like it here. Reminds me of my second studio.”

“You have two?” Arthur doesn't really wish to make conversation. He has an inkling why Merlin's come. He wants to tell Arthur there are no more jobs for him. That his first shoot was a one off. He's probably thought it would be kinder to let him down in person.

Before going on an actual shoot, Arthur's attitude towards his new job had been very take it or leave it. Unlike a lot of people, he's never dreamt of being a model and he could live with not being one. But he had fun during the shoot and would look forward to more, especially working with Merlin again. He bets Merlin wouldn't be on speaking terms with him either if it wasn't for the job. Arthur's just an ordinary guy. Merlin's a famous photographer. He really isn't keen to hear Merlin's news now.

“Go on, shoot,” Arthur says. “Make it quick.”

Merlin looks confused with that little crease camping so large between his brows. “You've been invited to an industry party.” Merlin shows him two envelopes. “It's a big event. It's better than a go see. You'll be noticed by the big wigs.”

Arthur releases a breath and takes one of the envelopes. It's blue with gilt edges and his name in golden lettering. “I--” he swallows. “I don't know what to say.”

“Say yes,” Merlin says, lifting one shoulder in a casual gesture. “You can have a plus one and everything.”

Arthur blows air from his cheeks. “I won't need a plus one pass.” Arthur wouldn't know who to take. Since he's moved to the UK he's had no one. “I'm not even sure I should come at all.”

Merlin places a hand on his elbow. “You should. Look, you don't get one of these invitations right at the start of your career, after the first photoshoot. But yours made an impression.”

Arthur scoffs. He hadn't known what to do. He had had to take Merlin's direction every step of the way. “I hardly think so.”

“No, it's true.” Merlin shakes his head. “Your billboard apparently caused traffic congestion and accidents. You know why? Because people dawdle to stare at you.”

Arthur can't believe his own ears. “That's impossible.” Arthur's been liked before, by his exes mostly, but he's never exactly stopped traffic. He knows. He walks the streets everyday. “You must have got it wrong.”

“No, I haven't,” Merlin says. “But that's not even the point. The point is that you've got pull. You can negotiate a nice contract now. But you've got to let yourself be seen. You have to be there for it to work.”

Sure that Merlin knows more about the world Arthur is stepping into than he does, Arthur hesitates. “You really think so?”

“Yes, I do.” Merlin catches his gaze, his own quite meaningful. “Besides, it's not only an opportunity, it's going to be fun.”

“Is it?” Arthur's not positive. He'll probably brush shoulders with rich people, meet famous personages, but that's not the be all and and all of life. “Are you going?”

“I don't think so.” Merlin takes a step backwards, then sidles forward. It's as if he doesn't know what to do with his own body. “It happens on a Tuesday; Tuesdays are my quiet days.”

“Oh come on.” Arthur gestures with the envelope. It's something to clutch at, to work on. “You can't plead for me to go and then sit it out yourself.”

“Arthur. It's different.” Merlin takes a long breath, followed by a loud exhalation. “You're just starting out. You need to be seen. I'm established. I can have my evening at home.”

Arthur crosses his arms. “Well, if you're not going, I won't go.”

“What!” Merlin lets out a semi-shout. “This is a big opportunity for you.”

Arthur concedes that perhaps it is. “I'll be a fish out of water without you.”

“Not for long,” Merlin says. “You're clever, you're personable.” He waves his hand about, indicating Arthur. “You're going to do great.”

Arthur's not exactly shy; or, at least, he only gets so when out of his comfort zone. He could probably make do without Merlin, but the prospect would be unappealing, completely drab. While he wants the job, he isn't keen on meeting all these industry people. Having Merlin there would make all the difference-- not just because he already knows Merlin, but because Merlin seems to be a fine guy. Arthur would love to be around him some more. “I stand by my decision.”

“In that case,” Merlin says, his shoulders collapsing in defeat, “you leave me no other option.”

Arthur breaks into a smile. It's not the feeling he wants to convey. He wants to come across as more laid back, more chill with it all. But he can't quite help it. He finds himself looking forward to the event now. He's also more hopeful about it in a career sense. “Then I'll be there.”

“How magnanimous of you, my lord.” Merlin takes a mock bow. 

Laughing, Arthur says, “Yes, it's quite a concession, isn't it?”

“I'm sure us poor mortals are flattered and will make do.” Merlin points to the envelope. “It starts at nine.”

“I thought being late was fashionable.” Arthur prides himself on the joke.

“Being somewhat late is okay,” Merlin lifts a warning finger, “but don't stretch it.”

“Why don't you pick me up?” Arthur says. “That way you can be sure.”

Merlin seems taken aback. His mouth drifts open, the skin around his neck goes pink. “I-- Yes, I can do that.”

“Good.” Arthur knows he's probably gone too far; manipulated Merlin a little, used his good intentions. But he's too happy with the promise he's wrested to actually back down. “Now all I have to do is find something to wear.”

“Don't spend the money you got with your first job on clothes.” Merlin gives Arthur a once over, checking him for size. “I'll ask Sefa to get you something.”

Having sorted out what they need to be doing, they are left with no more to talk about. Arthur bethinks himself and offers Merlin a beer. Merlin looks around the flat, locking eyes on the fridge, but he declines. He's nice and polite about it, but he backs towards the door. He reminds Arthur of the party's date and confirms he'll be taking him. But it's clear he has no intention of staying. To cover that up, he blushes and stammers, loses some of the confidence he has when wielding a camera. 

Arthur makes as if to escort him to the door. It's not only polite, but what he wants to do. In an odd sort of way he wants to postpone the moment Merlin goes. At the door Merlin cracks a smile, his gaze grows softer, and he says, “See you in ten days, then.”

“Till then.” Arthur repeats the words though there's no need to. The date of the party is embossed in the invitation. 

Merlin lifts his hand to signal his good bye and goes.

Arthur's still staring at the door, when Morgana peeps out from her room. “Is he gone?”

“Yes.” Arthur feels like he's stating the obvious since there's no one else with them. “It was just a quick visit.”

Morgana walks over to him. “What did he want?”

Arthur shows her the envelope. “He had an invite from me.”

Morgana snatches the card from him and says, “Oh my God. You've been invited to a Klein party and you can bring a plus one with you. Of course I'll go with you.” She kisses him on the cheek. 

“Morgana!” he splutters for lack of a better reproof.

“I know you will take me.” She twirls around the room. “I'll look super fine.”

“If you say so.” Arthur realises there's nothing he can do to oppose Morgana when she's so set on things.

 

**** 

 

On the day of the party, Arthur receives a clothes bag and a couple of boxes. He thanks the delivery man and walks inside with the items. When he opens it, the clothes bag reveals a charcoal suit with shiny lapels. It's been ironed to perfection so that its lines stand out like the edge of a blade. It's so soft, Arthur hand lingers on the fabric. Pinned to the shoulder is a post it. “I can see this on you, but feel free to discard it as an option. Love, Merlin.”

“It's lovely, Arthur,” Morgana tells him. “I've never seen clothing so beautiful.”

Arthur internally agrees. The suit Merlin has chosen for him is a work of art. It's an example of fine manufacture. But he doesn't want to go gaga over clothes or the gesture behind them. It would be like poking a hornet's nest.

As time for the party approaches, Arthur showers meticulously, then sprays on some perfume. When he puts on the suit, he realises it fits him so well, it might be bespoke. Arthur's never worn anything so fine before. Though he doesn't care for finery, he appreciates how thoughtful Merlin was with him. He feels the suit compliments him in all its aspects and it's easy to wear as well. It sits smoothly on his body, flowing whenever he moves. The fabric isn't itchy and adapts itself to every inch of him. 

He's lifting an arm to test its yield, when Morgana whistles.

“You look fine, dear brother,” she says. She looks done up to the nines too in a lace black dress, a high ponytail, and night out make-up. “Merlin certainly knows how to bring out the best in you.”

Arthur is uncomfortable with Morgana's words. He doesn't know why. They're brother and sister. Teasing is part of the territory. But when it comes to Merlin and his new job, Arthur doesn't want to be laughed at. So he deflects, “Where did you get your dress?” Fashion always interests her, but she doesn't have the money to buy any label clothing.

“The high street.” Morgana whirls around so as to show off the dress from every angle.

They get picked up at nine. A car is waiting for them by the kerb. It's not Merlin's Porsche, but a black Chrysler 300. It's got grey leather seats that travel round the interior in a U shape, a bar corner furnished with crystal decanters and flutes, and bottles of champagne in their coolers. 

Merlin sits on the seat under the partition that separates them from the driver. Morgana and Arthur duck and enter the car. Arthur says, “Wow, you really splurged.”

“It's not mine,” Merlin says, tapping the glass so the driver will start driving. “The Managing Director's at Calvin, Annis, sent me it.”

“She went a little overboard, didn't she?” Arthur looks around.

Merlin uncorks the champagne. “That's her style. But I didn't say no. I wanted you to have a bit of a treat.” He winks at them, then asks Morgana, “You're not against it, are you?”

“For the life of me, no.” She accepts a glass from Merlin and takes a sip. “Bubbly.”

“It's all thanks to you anyway,” Merlin continues on as he pours a second glass. “Annis fell in love with the shoot.”

“The one at the manor?” Arthur takes the champagne for Merlin. “I never thought it would go far.”

“Oh, I knew it would cause a stir,” Merlin says, drinking slowly. “I'm not trying to toot my own horn here. It's the subject more than the photographer that's the appeal.”

The car stops in front of the Mandarin Oriental with its brick turreted facade. They get directed to a private salon on the fifth floor. It's all gilded with a marble flooring and columns scattered here and there. The refreshment tables are covered in black velvet cloths and laden with food of all kinds, from oysters to shrimp to tiny delicacies put on skewers. The music being played is is soft fusion-- very futuristic, impersonal.

As Morgana mingles, Merlin introduces Arthur to executives, models and fellow photographers. The models are all young and stunning, some of their faces are known to him in a vague way. He can't be sure about the type of work they've done, but he has seen them around, possibly countless times, as the face of this or that product, on a magazine or billboard. The executives tend to be older, though less so than in other industries. Most are in their thirties and forties, their fashion sense verging on the daring and outré. The photographers are a mix of both worlds and the friendliest to Merlin. They shake his hand, high five him; they chat with him as a long lost friend. Merlin is open to the banter and quick to introduce Arthur.

Arthur is surprised to find that these personalities know his name and his work. He's only got one shoot under his belt, but everybody talks about it as though it's a known quantity and the best thing since sliced bread. 

Though he's never been to a party like this, Arthur does his best to acclimate to it. He thanks those who praise him, points out that Merlin's the one who performed all the magic, and generally tries to be nice to those who talk to him.

But being a perfect social machine isn't easy. He realises that, to the exclusion of Merlin, he isn't among friends and that, in a way, he's selling himself and what he can do. People seem to like him, but Arthur's not sure they would appreciate him if he didn't have a successful shoot behind him. Therefore, he can't act as naturally as he'd love to.

When the right time comes, Merlin introduces him to Annis. She's an imposing woman, not so much in her figure as in her behaviour. She has a steady, self assured attitude and she looks as though no one could ever surprise her. She takes a person's measure and that's it. “Ah, Arthur.” She takes in his nod and ploughs on. “Your photos are quite memorable.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, though there is little else he can utter.

“I like them.” Annis gives Merlin a small smile, acknowledging his contribution. “I want to see more of the same.”

Arthur wants to say 'do you', but realises that's just rude. “I'd be happy to sit for more.”

“Yes.” Annis gives him a severe once over as though she's trying to figure out where he stands in the big scheme of things. “We should talk contracts.”

“Contracts?”

“Yes, you didn't think I'd let you go so easily, did you?”

Merlin answers Arthur's panicked look. “As long as it's not an exclusive, I'm sure Arthur will think about it.”

Arthur should have come with a lawyer but he realises lawyers are not people one gathers around oneself at parties. But he trusts Merlin to help him out of this one. He's fared well in this world and he knows how it works. “I'd love working for you, but as Merlin says...”

“I'm not pressing for an exclusive,” Annis says. “But you could work as the face of Calvin.”

Merlin gives Arthur a nudge and a wink, “I'll leave you to have this conversation in private.”

Left alone, Annis makes her propositions. There's nothing wrong with them that Arthur can see, so he half promises he will sign a two-year contract with her. He'll be the face of Calvin for that time, with all of the associated perks and benefits. Arthur can scarcely believe his ears. He's never been poor, exactly--he's always had the wherewithal to put food on his table and to buy what he needs.--, but the sums touted as part of the contract make his head spin. He can't conceive what he'll do with that kind of money. It'll open up a completely new horizon, one where the object isn't the day to day grind of life, but the enjoyment of a lifestyle that would allow anyone not to take mundane matters into consideration. At least for a few years. When she's fairly sure that he will sign on, Annis lets him go have fun. 

The refreshment table is covered with plates on which mini canapés are laid. Other small snacks lie on silver trays alongside champagne flutes filled to the brim. It all looks very picturesque, Arthur's wondering what to choose, when a man comes up to him and says, “It doesn't taste as good as it looks.”

“Then I'm going to take this shrimp skewer.” Arthur picks up the item in question.

“I wouldn't.” The man has shoulder-length hair, coiffed so it looks full of volume and almost wavy. “The modelling industry is really solely focused on looks.”

Arthur takes a bite of the shrimp. It's tasteless and stringy, but not as bad as he'd feared. The fish is much better in Australia than it is here, the same going for molluscs. Certainly, he had to go fishing himself, but he is used to delicious fare. “You were right.”

“That's because I always am.” The man tsks. “I'm Gwaine, by the way.”

“Arthur.” Arthur cleans his hand on a napkin and offers it to Gwaine to shake. 

“Oh believe me, I know.” Gwaine rolls his eyes. “Everybody in the industry is dropping your name. That photoshoot was sizzling.”

Arthur pinks up. He's yet to learn how to avoid doing so. “It's all thanks to Merlin, really. He's a master with that camera of his.”

“Oh ,I know Emrys,” Gwaine says, dancing from foot to foot. “I worked with him.”

“In what capacity?” Arthur hopes he's not intruding, and that his question isn't silly. It might well be but he can't be expected to know all this many industry people just like that. It'll take time getting used to.

“I model.” Gwaine says that casually, like it's a hobby more than a job, as if it's something he does without much of a vocation. “He's good. He's an honest bloke, which is rare, among biz people. But, believe me, the hotness was all you.”

“I, um, thank you.” Whatever else can Arthur do when someone says to his face he's hot.

“No need to.” Gwaine sidles closer. “I call it as I see it. In fact I find you so hot, I wouldn't mind going somewhere private with you.”

Arthur should be flattered. It's not every day that a model propositions you. Gwaine's handsome and he's got a charming way about him. But it doesn't work as easily as all that. Arthur can't say yes. He doesn't know why. Gwaine fulfils his every dream regarding a man. He's exactly what he'd have pictured if he'd been asked what kind of guy he'd go for. But the magic doesn't happen. He doesn't feel like making it happen. “Another time perhaps.”

“Oh well.” Gwaine lightly shrugs his shoulders. “I had to try.”

When Gwaine is gone, Arthur aimlessly saunters around for a while. He watches people enjoy themselves; the crowd stick into groups, knitted together by a common background. Music is on, but they don't dance to it. He looks out for Morgana, but he finds her on a sofa with Ms. Smithson. Their bodies are angled towards each other, heads leaning close. They're thick in conversation and he doesn't want to interrupt them. 

From a table he grabs two glasses of champagne, then finds a niche in the salon. Merlin is sitting on a low velvet stool of rectangular shape. He sits down next to him and nudges the drink over to him. “Not mingling?”

“I usually do it,” Merlin says, drinking from his flute, his jaw tight as he does. “I'm not feeling like it today.”

“It must be stressful.” Arthur goes out on a limb with this. He probably shouldn't say it. He's not sure of the welcome of his words, but he feels as though Merlin's a kindred soul. “Being on for these people all of the time.”

Merlin makes a slight motion with his head; it might be interpreted as a nod. “Most of them are well meaning, some less so. It's just... you get jaded after a while.”

Arthur's sorry. Merlin shouldn't feel that way. He's such a bright spot in Arthur's experience of all this. “I thought you liked this world.”

Merlin taps the floor with his foot, then stops himself. “Don't listen to me. I don't dislike it. I love photographing and when the right subject comes along...” He smiles at Arthur and it's crooked and a little toothy, very charming. “It's magic. But sometimes, just sometimes, I'd like it if I had more leeway.”

Arthur's not being long in this industry, so he isn't sure he's getting this right. “You mean if you could photograph what you wanted?”

“In a way, yes.” Merlin lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “I love photography. I love the possibilities it opens up.” He puts his hands up as if he's holding the camera. “You're reworking life through a different angle. The lens is a magic mirror.”

“But--?” 

“Commercial photography doesn't go for the soul of it,” Merlin says. “It appeals to the eye. It works on the imagination, makes you want things.”

Arthur can guess where Merlin's going with this. “But it's not all that photography can be and not all of what you can do.”

Merlin laughs. “Now I sound like a total prick, disparaging the great opportunities I've had.”

“No, no.” Arthur wants to reassure Merlin on that score. He's just glad Merlin's opening up to him. So far, their relationship has been a bit of a one way street, with Merlin helping him adapt to the constraints of the new job and Arthur taking and giving nothing in return. He wants to pay Merlin back in kind and be there for him. “I don't think so. You're allowed to feel the way you do.”

“I just don't want you to get the wrong impression.” Merlin looks downwards, his eyes squeezing themselves small. “I don't want you to think ill of me.”

“I don't.” Arthur's fairly sure he never will. “I just think you should do something about this feeling of yours. If commercial photography doesn't make you happy, then perhaps you should try the artistic kind.”

Merlin's lips tick up sideways. “I already do.” 

Arthur bursts out laughing. “I should have known.” Merlin follows in the merriment and laughs too. When they both sober, Arthur asks, “Can I see it?”

“Yes, I mean, I don't know why you'd want to see my stuff,” Merlin says, “but I don't see why you shouldn't.”

Arthur wants to say that he's sure Merlin's art's left a mark, that his photos will be beautiful. He has a sixth sense about it. He just knows how full of talent Merlin is. He brims with it. It doesn't take a genius to guess it, not after seeing him in action. He's quite active then, full of energy and passion. Arthur only half understands it, but he can sense that Merlin is making a contribution to the art world. “Oh, I know what I'm in for, believe me.”

Later when they're at home, feet on the coffee table, chamomile mugs in their hands, Arthur and Morgana discuss the night.

“So, you disappeared on me,” Arthur tells her because he likes needling her when he can. “I couldn't find you.”

“I had this nice little chat with Gwen.” Morgana brings her mug to her mouth. “She was so open and easy. You wouldn't think it with her job but she's just so down to earth.”

“Ah, she charmed you to the point she monopolised all your time.”

Morgana kicks his foot. “Says the man who spent all of his evening with Merlin.”

Looking back over his actions, Arthur finds it's true. He hadn't meant to do it. He hadn't planned it like that, but so it happened. Merlin's just easy to talk to, much more warm and cordial than those industry types. Arthur has no idea why they throw such parties, seeing as they can't bother being nice at them. Merlin's quite another thing. “That's different.”

“How?” Morgana looks pointedly at him.

Arthur withstands the effect of her stare for close to thirty seconds before standing up and saying, “Well, I for one am knackered. Good night.”

Though he has closed his bedroom door on her, Arthur can hear Morgana's, “I can see what you're doing!”

 

**** 

Merlin's house is in Shoreditch, between Old Street and Shoreditch Park. It's in a red-brick three-storey tall building with a balcony on the middle floor. It's big inside with expanses of white washed walls, modern gadgetry, and office areas, complete with a dark room.

Arthur appreciates the place while Merlin shows him round. It's airy and tasteful, with shows of character here and there, particularly in the photos that Merlin has framed and put up. They're of simple objects--a pair of hands in black and white; a tree at dusk; a corner shop out of which people are heading out, heads down, their shapes a blur. As Merlin talks to him about his choice of décor, Arthur looks at the photos and is stunned by the meaningfulness of them.

“Let me make you a coffee,” Merlin says as they move into the kitchen.

The kitchen is open plan with access to the balcony and a view to the street. In the middle of it there is a counter around which stools are perched. As he watches Merlin fiddle with the coffee maker, Arthur sits on one.

“I thought you'd live somewhere grander,” Arthur says, while he looks around. “Somewhere different.”

“I don't come from money.” Merlin ranges mugs on the kitchen's worktop. “I can appreciate what goes in the upkeep of a home.”

“You could have spoilt yourself.” Arthur placed an elbow on the counter, and his head in his hand. “I'm sure they pay you well.”

“What's the point of spoiling oneself if I lose touch with everyday life?” When the machine is done making noises, Merlin puts the mugs under its little taps and waits for coffee to issue from them. “I want to portray it.”

“You mean in your private photography?” Arthur accepts the mug Merlin offers him. It's too hot and he doesn't sip but he cradles it in his hands, comforted by its warmth. 

“I can't capture it in my commercial photographs,” Merlin says as he turns around to lean against the same counter Arthur sits at. He doesn't perch on the stool, but remains standing, bent over with his elbows on the tiles. “I have to sell glitz. But it means a lot to me.”

“You still haven't shown me all of your photos.” Arthur hasn't forgotten that. He doesn't want to put pressure on Merlin, but he's been invited here with a purpose and he really wants to have a look at them. “I'd still love to.”

“In that case,” Merlin drinks a pull of coffee, even though it must still be scalding, “follow me.”  
f  
Merlin takes him into his darkroom. Because of the dim lighting, Arthur's eyes have to adjust first, but when they do he can see a variety of photographs hanging on lines. They're clearly freshly developed, shiny with newness

Arthur walks along the room, taking in the images, trying to suss out their meanings. They're mostly single subject and about daily objects. They make a lot of use of black and white and shadows. They're stark, graphic, unembellished. There's a rawness to them that isn't in the glamour shots of Merlin's that he's seen. There's real feeling here; real emotion, no wish fulfilment. 

“These are my latest. In development.” Merlin looks up at the line. There's no pride in his eyes. There's no look of achievement. He takes it as it is. “I've been quite inspired lately.”

“Can I see more?” There are overall twenty pictures that are being developed. But Merlin's been at this for years, he's surely got a larger stash. 

“Are you sure?” In the red-tinged penumbra, Merlin ducks his head. “I mean you're not just being polite?”

“I'm not just being polite.” How Merlin can think that is beyond Arthur, really. He must know his worth.

In the lounge, they sit together on the sofa with soft light coming from outside. Merlin shows him the albums of photos he's made over the years. He starts with the first album containing the first picture he took. “I don't know,” he says, “whether it's to impress you with the beauty of my early efforts or to make you more forgiving.”

Merlin's early photos aren't as raw and impactful as his current ones are, but they all tell a tale. There are recurrent subjects, too. A spot of countryside that features in all seasons and all weathers, the faces of a woman ageing and a young boy growing up as the series of images progresses. Buildings recur too, the more crooked the better.

“I never show these early ones to anybody,” Merlin says. “I mean, these are my personal history. My mother and my best friend, my childhood home and my old haunts.”

Arthur's mouth dries. He looks Merlin in the eye. They're so close now, thigh to thigh, that he can see all the feelings that fleet across Merlin's face: the openness, the friendship, the vulnerability. And he wonders, for a brief moment, if there's more there. If, maybe, Merlin thinks of him differently than a simple acquaintance made at work. Maybe he does. Perhaps that's why they're connecting on so many levels. Because Merlin wants to invite him in.

Arthur's almost persuaded to lean in and kiss him. 

The idea comes to him as a mixture of spur of the moment sensations and a thought that had been in his mind a while. Merlin's nice and fit after all and he's been a treasure trove for Arthur. It's only natural that he should want to kiss him. 

He's a hundred percent positive he's getting the same vibes from Merlin. Merlin's gazing into his eyes, true, and his expression's intent, but Merlin wears his heart on his sleeve. If he likes you it shows, and Arthur thinks maybe that's all he's communicating, his platonic liking of Arthur. Given that they work together and that Arthur owes Merlin so much, it's not the right moment to try and test their friendship with a kiss.

When he realises he's not going in for a kiss, that he hasn't got the courage for it, Arthur feels a wash of disappointment in himself. He had wanted it. He had felt like it. He had primed his body for it, licking his lips and moving closer, but he's made nothing of it and that's a sheer let down.

As soon as Arthur has put some physical distance between them, Merlin's features contract; he drops his gaze and he backs away too. His face is now a sober mask. “Would you like some more coffee? Or tea, perhaps? I do a mean tea.”

Arthur bites his tongue and says, “Coffee will be fine.”

He goes back home knowing he didn't takethat chance, that he didn't dare. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but it's also deep down a strange comfort. At least he hasn't met with rejection. At least he hasn't made a fool of himself. It's little consolation, but it works for now.

**** 

Over the next few months, Arthur's life changes completely. He officially gives up his job at the pub. He does more shoots, earns more money, gets to know more people--photographers who praise him and shoot directors who explain his tasks to him. Arthur learns a lot. He gets the hang of how to pose with little instruction. He develops a new ease with the camera. He comes by new tricks that allow him to be good at his job. Prospective employers take notice and hire him more often so that he ends up really appreciating the non-exclusivity clause he has with Calvin. 

Because of these new jobs, he has enough cash to move out of the rented flat he shares with Morgana. He can afford to live on his own now, in a place to call his own. He doesn't want to splurge. Merlin has taught him it's not necessary. He doesn't need to find a house for ostentation's sake, only one to comfortably live in. 

When he finds a renovated flat in the former wharf area of Bermondsey, he scoops it up. The view is nice, the dimensions are satisfactory, and it scarcely needs any refurbishing. Arthur moves in lock, stock and barrel. Morgana teases him that he misses her, but it's only half true and a forgettable occurrence.

Because he's invested so much in the flat, he needs to work more. He's booked for a shoot for a jeans company. The work seems easy. They're going to work on location and over a two day period. The photographer is not Merlin, but rather a busy looking woman in her late thirties called Nimueh.

She's very no nonsense and, from the very first moment, directs the shoot with a heavy hand.

“Elena,” Nimueh says, “I want you to lean on Arthur, drape yourself over him and give me bedroom eyes.”

“She has a fixation with that,” Elena murmurs in Arthur's ear. But she goes and does as she's told.

Arthur's doing his best, looking broodily at the far stable wall. He's wearing a white vest and jeans and he's barefoot. Because this is a real stable, the flooring isn't exactly clean and Arthur's already longing for a shower.

“That's good.” Nimueh snaps photographs of them both in quick succession. “Now Arthur, I want you to pick up the rake. Elena, I want you to try and wrest it from his hands. Make it look like a couple's squabble.”

While assistants retouch their make-up and artfully arrange straw stalks in their hair, Elena and Arthur turn around and reposition themselves. This time they're facing one another, the rake between them. Elena's got her hands on the handle, Arthur on the other end of the tool. 

When Nimueh starts shooting, they act as though the rake is a bone of contention, with real shouting and growling. Nimueh moves around, taking shots of their fake row. 

Arthur feels like a bit of an idiot, but he knows this his job now. He has to pretend this rake is so very important and that it's a contentious issue between him and Elena.

“Now I want you to lie down in the straw.” Nimueh watches as Arthur and Elena go to a stall and recline in a bed of thankfully fresh straw. “Twine your legs and take each other's hand.”

Arthur winks at Elena. “Let's do this.”

She smiles and says, “I can never do sexy for the life of me.”

Nimueh takes quite a number of photos of them in the straw, telling them to flirt for the camera, and act like a passionate couple in the middle of a tryst. They roll on top of each other and lean close for kisses they never give or take. They wriggle and scoot close, touching each other while showing off their jeans.

Arthur really doesn't understand how this hot farmer lark works but he's glad he's got Elena by his side. She makes it easy and not so embarrassing as it might have been. At the end of the day, when the shoot is done, they pat each other on the back and find words to praise each other. 

Before they can part ways and Arthur be driven back to his hotel, Nimueh says, “Dinner tonight, Pendragon.”

Given the way the command's being given, Arthur can find no way to refuse. He had meant to sit in his bathtub at the hotel and soak in there with music playing in the background. But apparently he can't have that. During the shoot Nimueh's is the boss, or rather represents the bosses, so he can't let her down.

When he gets to the restaurant on the ground floor, he meets Nimueh. She's wearing a red evening gown graced with artful teardrops shaped crystals scattered about it an uneven hem. It looks like a rag, but Arthur's learnt by now that's high fashion.

She takes him to a centre table that has been reserved for them. The décor is American country with a farmhouse theme--the room is filled with chequered table cloths, plush chairs, and oil lamps as ornament. The windows overlook the porch and the Cheshire countryside.

When the waiter comes, Nimueh waves him away, saying, “Two Chateau Rayas.” The moment the waiter is gone, she addresses Arthur. “So Arthur, you've come a long way in such a short time.”

“It was all really happenstance.” Arthur knows he shouldn't knock himself, but he can't really praise himself when he did little to make it all happen. It was mostly Merlin who fashioned his career. “Luck, if you will.”

“You're doing the right kind of work though,” Nimueh says, splaying the napkin on her knees. “I'm very happy with how you posed today.”

“Elena helped a lot.” Arthur finds her a great girl, easy, practical, very simple in her manners despite already being famous in her own right. “She gave me the right tempo, the right cues.”

“I'm glad Elena complemented you so well.” Nimueh swirls the wine in her glass with slow motions of her wrist. “We chose her with that in mind.”

“Thank you for doing that.” Arthur doesn't know what else to say. He more than half wishes that Elena was with them. With her there, he's sure, things would be going much more smoothly. “And for inviting me to dinner.”

“Yes, well, there are things we need to discuss.” Nimueh shoos away the waiter when it looks as if he's about to replace the wine bottle. Considering she made quite an inroad into it, that's a bit strange. “Important matters.”

That appears odd to Arthur. As far as it concerns the models, the shoot is finished. Nimueh, as the photographer, will probably have to put finishing touches to the pictures, but he's done. Still, if she wants his input, Arthur's ready to give it. He doesn't know what he'll say, but he's ready to express his opinion for what it's worth. “Fire away.”

“The Bulgari parfum shoot,” Nimueh says. “You're its star.”

Arthur inclines his head. “I've just signed up for it. I'm going to work for them.”

“Word on the street is--” Nimueh leans closer as though whatever she wants to say is confidential. None of it strictly is. It's no secret anymore. Yet Nimueh acts as though it is. “--that Emrys's being contracted as its photographer.”

Arthur has known for a while. Half the reason he'd signed up was because Merlin is going to be on board. He's frankly been looking forward to it. Ever since their last meeting, Arthur and Merlin have been rather on edge with each other. There's been something wrong between them. There's no ease in their relationship, no comfort. It's prickly with spikes of unrest. He has been thinking that he would use their upcoming time together to make things smooth again. “Yes, he has creative control over the shoot.”

“Emrys is no good for this kind of shoot, I'll have you know.” Nimueh takes a measured sip of her wine. It's a controlled gesture, showing that she's mastering what she's saying. She's not drinking to brace herself or to waste time. She's getting exactly what she needs. “He's not at all the right person for it.”

Arthur has seen Merlin's photographs. His brilliance shines through in them. Arthur can't think of a better photographer for such a high-end shoot. “I'm not sure I agree, Nimueh.”

“That's because you're a model and not a photographer.” Nimueh counters him quickly, as though she'd already thought of a rejoinder before he ever spoke. “Besides you haven't been in our world long. You just don't know these things.”

Arthur swallows hard. He wasn't expecting such hard words, even less so because they're spoken so glibly, as though they're a given. Because Nimueh's represents his bosses, Arthur doesn't know what to say. But he sticks to what he believes in. “That may be true, but I trust Merlin to make the most of his job.”

“I'm sure he does make the most of the tasks entrusted to him,” Nimueh says. “He has a nice personality. People take to him and he uses that. Some people do it. But he's not a real fashion photographer. He thinks us all below him and secretly wants to do something else.”

That isn't the impression Merlin has made on him. It's true he wants to express himself by other means than the fashion medium but he puts his heart in what he does. If he didn't, Arthur wouldn't have responded so well. He wouldn't have found his confidence and he wouldn't be here now. That's something of value to put into one's work. “You may not know him so well.”

“Perhaps it's you who don't,” Nimueh says, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. “You're very new in our world, aren't you?”

Arthur can't say she's wrong. He's new in more ways than one. His relationships with the people in the business are all fragile. Perhaps that fact has shown already in the way he parted from Merlin, with both of them on the wrong foot, and Arthur feeling a desire he shouldn't have allowed himself to nourish. Merlin was embarrassed by his behaviour, caught off guard. Ever since, he hasn't been as close to Arthur as he was when he was showing him the ropes. It still hurts deeply and in a way that's taught him a lesson. Perhaps he should be more humble and own up to it. Admit Nimueh is right. She probably has more of a feel for who Merlin is than he does. “Touché.”

“It's because I know him so well that I can tell he's not the right person for a job that's all about glamour.” Nimueh arches her eyebrows to make her point. “You need to love fashion and style to do it. Be aware of the history of it. You need to be mad about the glitz.”

“I see.”

“That's why I think I should do it myself.” Nimueh places her hand on Arthur's wrist on the table. “I've been in love with the industry ever since I was a child. I've always wanted to represent its beauty.”

Nimueh's pitch is nearly convincing. Her passion cannot be mistaken at least. That is real. Her niceness to Arthur seem to be a little less genuine. Right this morning she didn't seem to appreciate him quite as much as she does now. Something's afoot. “I don't quite see what I've got to do with all this?”

“You're a shooting star, Arthur.” Nimueh's nails graze the skin of his hand. “You've already made a name for yourself with Calvin. You're on everybody's lips.”

“The bees knees,” Arthur jokes to break up the tension he senses is mounting.

“Quite.” Nimueh inclines her head. “Considering your impact, any word from you would be taken seriously.”

Arthur's brow lines itself in a frown. “I don't quite understand what that's got to do with anything.”

“I'm sure that if you talked to your bosses, you can even let your agent do it, and asked for a photographer replacement, they would satisfy you.”

“A replacement?” Arthur's no idea what Nimueh is talking about.

“Yes, I think I should step into his shoes,” Nimueh says. “Don't you?”

Arthur is taken wholly aback. This is a development he hadn't foreseen. 

**** 

They land so close to water Arthur for a moment thinks they'll crash into the sea. When he opens his eyes again he sees that the plane made the landing strip in all safety. A taxi gets them to the speed boat that takes them to their hotel. The view from Arthur's room is of the Canal Grande and its scintillating waters.

Arthur's room door is open and Merlin walks in. “May I?”

Arthur turns around, the balcony rail to his back. “Sure.” He can't bring himself to step back inside though he wants to welcome Merlin in. “Come look at this view.”

Merlin makes a beeline for the balcony and settles by Arthur's side. “I have seen it already but admiring the sights in company makes all the difference.”

The buildings are red and golden, ochre and white. Barges and gondolas sail past together with river buses and taxi speed boats. Red awnings spread over bases made up of wooden piles. “I almost can't believe I'm here.”

“You earned it,” Merlin says.

“Just because I've got the looks they want?” Arthur asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Looks matter in this business, of course they do.” Merlin breathes in the afternoon air. “But I think you worked hard, made no fuss and were easily manageable. Those are all characteristics that employers go for, and you displayed them to the max.”

“Talking to you is always a boost.” Arthur turns around so he can look back at the view. It's splendid, breathtaking. If a year ago they'd asked him where he would be in a twelvemonth, he wouldn't have replied Venice. “How do you manage it?”

“I don't want you to think that mine are just pep talks,” Merlin says, drumming his fingers on the rail. “I genuinely believe in you, Arthur. From the very first moment I had a good feeling about you and you proved me right.”

“Must have been very rewarding.” Teasing Merlin makes him smile, because Merlin takes it in stride and plays along.

“Yes, of course.” Merlin nudges him with his shoulder. “I approve of everything that supports the idea of me being always correct.”

They sidle close together and look at the view for the longest time, until the wind picks up and staying on the balcony becomes a chilly affair. They go back into Arthur's room. They share the bottle of complimentary champagne and sit on Arthur's bed, discussing next morning's shoot. 

Merlin tells him how he wants it to be: classy, a little mysterious. He wants Arthur to ooze a James Bond vibe. He'll have his evening jacket on and he'll have to play a bit of a role, that of the man of the world, a self-assured person who can charm with a look.

“You think I can't charm with a look?” Arthur's not looking for a serious answer but Merlin is earnest when he answers. 

“I think you can.” Merlin puts the champagne bottle down on the floor. “I think you could charm a nun if you wanted to. You've got an allure about you, Arthur.”

“Do I?” Merlin's words have more of an impact than Arthur thought they would. If he reads them they way he wants to, he'll let his heart beat too fast. He'll get it broken too. If he lets himself stay rational, he'll feel disappointed. He could take a chance, but he's not a fan of emotional risks. He plays it safe; “I don't want to charm any nun.”

“No?” Merlin tilts his head, makes a fun face. “It would have been interesting.”

“It would have raised all sorts of moral questions.”

“Indeed, we should have involved the Vatican.”

“Very Dan Brown.”

They laugh together, but Arthur can't forget that they've been skirting intimacy. He wants to go there. He wants to do more than orbit around the subject. He wishes he could make it easy and that he could tell Merlin what he's thinking. There's a chance Merlin's thinking it too. He once again senses that he might. But if he should be mistaken, he would ruin their relationship. That's the shoal his dreams crash against each and every time. 

Merlin leans so close Arthur's tasting his breath on his laughter. When he eases back it's a pain for Arthur. “Why don't we go out to dinner?”

“I thought we had dinner scheduled at the hotel?” Arthur has not bothered with the details. These days, they get organised for him. 

“I was thinking we should do something more down to earth,” Merlin tells him. 

They find a restaurant in a small side street along a calle, deep in the heart of Venice. The restaurant is small, vaunting only some ten tables, but the smells coming from the kitchen are delicious. They take a corner table away from the eyes of the crowd. They've got the brick wall on one side but it's cosy, so they don't move.

When they get the menu, Merlin's quick to translate for him. 

“I didn't know you knew Italian,” Arthur points out.

“I actually don't.” Merlin says as he flips through the menu's pages. “But I've been here so often I've learnt some basics.”

Arthur's glad that Merlin's here with him instead of Nimueh. She wouldn't have made their working environment so easy, their down time so pleasant. She had been looking out for number one, acting in her own interests. Bulgari has made the right choice with Merlin. Arthur's glad he didn't complain about him, that he didn't listened to her advice and sought to oust Merlin. Quite aside from personal inclination, Merlin is easier and friendlier than Nimueh, with all of her requests, was.

They order simple food--fish and pasta, washed down by the house wine. They talk about anything and everything, scarcely mentioning tomorrow's job. It's at the back of their minds, of course, asthe reason they're here together at all, but it doesn't feature in their talk and it doesn't loom over their good spirits.

When they walk back to the hotel, they're a bit high from the wine and the closeness. Arthur makes sure he keeps pace with Merlin, that their shoulders are brushing, that some kind of touch happens between them. He's warm inside, in that kind of state where everything's seems fine, and getting close to Merlin appears not to be hard at all. All obstacles have been removed. In the harsh light of day they might all be there, but for now they're as far away as can be.

They've come to a turning close to the hotel when Arthur stops and sidles close, putting a kiss to Merlin's cheek. “This was a good night,” he says.

**** 

 

The gondola floats on the canal's water near the docking space. A real gondoliere is giving instructions to the model who'll have to play his part while Merlin coaches Arthur.

“The hard part is balancing,” Merlin tells him, pointing at the small vessel. “But I want you to try. The theme is that of a wild carnival so you must ooze as much confidence as you can.”

“Do I have to stand straight?” Arthur is concentrating on being professional. His admiration for Merlin's managing abilities will have to take the back seat. He can notice how good Merlin is at handling a complicated water shoot, without actually gushing about it.

Merlin says, “You can cheat a bit. You can put a foot on the strake, if you want to. Just see to it you don't fall head first into the water. They tell me it's not that clean.”

“You're doing away with the poetry of the place.” Arthur can't help but joke a little with Merlin; it'll dissolve the tension that's built up in preparation of the shoot.

“Not my intention,” Merlin says. “Fall in love with the backdrop as much as you can.”

Arthur's afraid he's fallen for more than just the beauty of Venice, but he can't say that. 

When they're all ready, themodel dressed as a gondoliere takes the oar. Arthur, in evening dress, boards the barge. Behind him stand two ladies wrapped in cloaks and wearing sun masks. On another gondola are the technicians, positioning the umbrella screens, silver reflectors and the lights. Merlin crouches on the bow of a motorboat and starts taking photos. 

Having to contend with the motion of the boat, Arthur does his best to give Merlin a variety of angles and poses. Merlin still gives him instruction, though, and he makes it considerably easier than if he'd been left alone to drift for himself.

“Arthur, put your foot on the gunwale and look to the canal.”

Arthur does as he's told, trying to put some intensity in his gaze. Merlin seems happy with Arthur's choice, and shoots multiple takes. When he has enough of this specific position, he asks Arthur to, “Stand straight, closer to the back of the gondola.”

With the vessel rolling under his feet, Arthur moves. He has to watch out because he has to climb over brocaded velvet seats to reach the stern and lean against the ferro di poppa. Merlin's camera flashes in his direction multiple times while the model acting as gondoliere moves his oar in desultory fashion.

Shaking up the line up, Arthur sits down between the two suns, leaning close to one as though he wants to kiss the model behind the mask. Merlin moves on the bow of his motorboat, lying flat on its surface then standing tall, all the while taking pictures. 

After lunch, they take photos amid the colonnades in Piazza San Marco. Arthur's wearing a different dinner jacket with another bow tie. The suns have been joined by moons wearing cloaks of silver. They stride down the arcades. They stage a fight in the middle of the square. They saunter and glide. They act tough and they dance in the streets. By the time they're done, Arthur can picture what the final product will look like. 

He knows that Merlin will put his finishing touches on the photos tomake them look even more beautiful and ethereal. He's already quite proud of this campaign and Merlin's work in it. And though featuring on a billboard is somewhat embarrassing, he will be happy to have starred in the promotional work. It's not just about the money, though not having previously had it makes him appreciate the security. It's about the team effort he's been a part of. He wants to contribute to making Merlin's name. 

He's almost sad Merlin's organisational ability has made so much work into a day shoot. He would love to stay here with Merlin and have some time for themselves, have a replica of last evening. Last evening was fine in his books. 

“Why don't we skip the company dinner and go somewhere fun?” Merlin asks him, as though he's reading Arthur's thoughts.

At the notion, Arthur blushes. He doesn't want Merlin to understand just how much Arthur wants to spend time with him, how much he's clung to the memories of the moments they've shared together. He shouldn't be feeling this way. He should be as professional as Merlin has proved himself to be.

“Why not?” Arthur puts nonchalance in his tone. “What were you planning to do?”

They roam the city at night, not stopping at restaurants or bars, skirting crowded places. They seek out beautiful views, which Merlin photographs for his personal collection. They eat panini on a bridge, bathed by moonlight, a can of cheap beer between them. The calle is so desolate at this time of night there's no one about, just them and the stars. 

They talk about the present and their past. Merlin asks him about Australia and whether he misses it. Arthur thinks about it, considers his bygones, and comes up with a half answer. He knows it's not a definitive one but then again, that's a question that requires a lot of thought. Merlin senses that and doesn't press. He keeps looking at the stars, hugging himself against the cold, listening attentively without ever interrupting. He's a solid weight at Arthur's side. 

“What about the future?” Arthur asks. “What do you see yourself doing five years from now?”

Merlin tips his head back, studying the night sky. “I'll probably be doing more of this, but I'd also like to have a gallery of my own. I want to showcase people's photography.”

“And your own?” Arthur elbows Merlin in the ribs.

“Maybe.” Merlin laughs. “I do hope I can get to give some of my attention to my artistic photography.” He takes a breath. “What about you?”

“I don't know.” Arthur's not sure he's had time to contemplate that question. He's been rushed back and forwards lately, carted from one country to another and made to work twelve hour days. He's grateful for his lucky break, but he can't say he'd had the time to consider what he will do two years hence. “But I hope you're there.”

Taken aback, Merlin blinks, looks him in the eye and doesn't break the connection. There's hope in his expression, hesitance and sweetness, and this time Arthur can't be mistaken. He can't be imagining the energy pulsing between them, the rise in Merlin's breathing, the longing in his eyes. He cannot be interpreting this the wrong way. He must dare. He must take that leap of faith and hope Merlin welcomes him, that Merlin's on the same wavelength. 

Knowing this as a fundamental truth, he takes courage, which is all he's ever needed. He makes the pass, leans close, tastes Merlin's breath, and still Merlin doesn't draw back, doesn't issue any alarm. Arthur must have been right. 

Heart in his throat, he touches his lips to Merlin's, gently at first, creating a pattern of press and release that fits their mouths together. It dissolves in a slow stroke along Merlin's bottom lip. At that, Merlin's mouth opens slightly to allow for an exhalation, and Arthur tastes him for the first time, their tongues grazing each other in a hasty, hesitant greeting that becomes a slow acquaintance. Shaking, Merlin runs his hands up Arthur's arms, and wraps his own arms around Arthur's neck, pulling him close for a deeper kiss.

Arthur's cheeks heat; emotion swirls in his belly and finds root in some central part of his essence. Their give and take becomes more fervent, emotional, engendering a need for touch. They trade them--a hand on a cheek, an arm around the shoulders, a palm on the back, but they soon realise they can't do this in the middle of the street. However lonely and solitary, their position is very public.

“Back to the hotel?” Merlin asks, in tune with Arthur's thoughts on the subject.

“Yeah.”

They work their way through lonely narrow streets, kissing and touching, holding hands when they can't. The road back twists and turns. They pass bridges and mooring places, little streets that give onto the canals, the moon reflected in their waters. 

Being so preoccupied with what is about to happen, Arthur can't even remember the path home. He should probably try and recollect it, but he really can think of nothing but Merlin and the night ahead. 

When they get to the hotel, they make a beeline for the lift. Once on the floor level, they discuss which room to go to. Arthur says he doesn't care. Merlin shares the same feeling. They end up in Merlin's because it's the slightly larger of the two.

When the door closes on the rest of the world, they come together for a kiss that's slow and full of intent. This time, there's no ambivalence about it, no second thoughts. They're past the doubting stage and have come to agree on their mutual want. 

Taking things up where they left off, Arthur kisses Merlin anew. When a kiss finishes, another begins with barely time for breath in between. Arthur feels this is the right thing to do, that he's following a good instinct. Holding back had been a mistake, one he doesn't want to repeat again.

Threading his fingers into Arthur's hair, Merlin pulls him forwards for a kiss. This must be the hundredth ever since this started, but it feels like the first, like a new shock of vitality drilled right into Arthur's core. He maps the shape of Arthur's shoulders from their width at the top down to his waist, his broad palms tracing the expanse of Arthur's back. 

“I've liked you since I first saw you,” Merlin says with the breathlessness of passion. “But I told myself I couldn't.” 

Arthur places tiny pecks across Merlin's bottom lip. It's fat and soft, perfect. “Couldn't what?” Arthur's not sure he's understood Merlin's words. His thoughts aren't the clearest right now. He's too drunk on Merlin's kisses and emotion. He's too concerned with tonight's potential to be able to make any other consideration.

“I thought you were hot from the first,” Merlin tells him again. “But I couldn't act like it. It would have been too unprofessional since I was the one who scouted you.”

“I've been harbouring a crush on you for a while now.” Arthur noses the side of Merlin's face, his chin, his throat as Merlin throws his head back. “It wouldn't have been amiss if you'd let me know.”

“Even if I'd known, I'd have hesitated,” Merlin says as his hands close on Arthur's forearms, fingers digging in. “I'm a stickler for rules of good conduct in the profession. I want to be honest and above board in my job all the time.”

“But you're sure now.” Arthur nuzzles the skin under Merlin's jaw. “I know you are.” Merlin's not the type to give in to something if he's not convinced. He didn't make a move before because he didn't want to, wasn't ready to. But now that he's on the same page as Arthur, it must be because he's made his decision.

Merlin's voice comes out harsh because Arthur's lips are moving down his neck. “I am. I want this with you.”

Arthur could have desired nothing more, nothing better. Merlin had his reasons for keeping away before, but now they're moving in the same direction, feeling the same callto action.

Arthur's hands are shaky as he undoes the buttons of Merlin's shirt. It's lucky that Merlin second guesses him and starts to help him. Merlin's shirt is almost off when Merlin seems to decide Arthur's got to go, too. So he starts at its buttons, tangling his arms with Arthur's. For a moment, they're caught in an impasse and they can't move, not their arms, anyway. So they start a kiss, one that goes slow and deep and sets Arthur's heart careering in his chest.

Somehow they disentangle, reaching for each other again, ending up in each other's arms, as though there's some kind of magnet pulling them together.

“I just want this to work out," Merlin says. "I don't want you to look back on this and regret your actions.”

"I'm not going to.” Arthur is firm in his decision. He's not a changeable guy, he won't look back and think he's made a mistake. His heart's chosen Merlin and that's it. “I'm not a spur of the moment kind of person.”

Arthur's words seem to impact Merlin, to make him think. He nods his his head.

They come together again, heads pressed together, hands at their belts, so they can undo them. Their trousers fall in a heap at their feet. “Hey, watch out,” Arthur says, a smile on his face. “These are designer trousers.”

“So sorry.” Merlin chuckles. “Who did I disrespect?”

Arthur doesn't want to comment. He doesn't want to waste anymore time. He pushes Merlin onto the bed. It's plush and wide and they sink right into the mattress with a sigh of springs. Arthur climbs right on top of Merlin, body to body. Without clothes on, Merlin is long and leanly muscled, his limbs coltish and somewhat pointy, his elbows and knees all angles. Arthur is still coming to terms with everything that's going on around him, with the physicality of Merlin, when Merlin leans up to kiss him and Arthur skims his hands on Merlin's hips, the hardness of bone under his palms.

They kiss, open mouthed, while they're lying chest to chest in bed. As their mouths move one atop the other, they take off their underwear, which slips off down their legs and falls by side of the bed in a whoosh of clothing. 

There's nothing that Arthur's wanted more in the past months than this. He could have done without the money, the new flat, the change of life style. He could have happily continued as he was, but he can't put up with the idea of losing this connection to Merlin, this relationship that's come of the abrupt change to his daily life. 

Arthur must have slackened in his kissing of Merlin because Merlin rolls them, switching their positions. Merlin's not that heavy on top of him and the pillow is soft so Arthur's got no complaint. He reels Merlin in by the shoulder, roaming his hands up the expanse of his back, from the top of it to the bottom, palming his arse before clutching again at his hips. All the while, he kisses Merlin's neck, finding the bone in his shoulder with his teeth, bodies dragging one against the other. 

Their skin pebbles. Arthur feels himself shake and catches Merlin trembling. They resettle in each other's arms, negotiating space for their limbs, their cocks brushing together. They sigh against each other's necks. 

Wrapping his hand around Merlin's cock, Arthur works him to full and complete hardness. Merlin inhales sharply; his breathing goes raspy and his kissing the side of Arthur's face becomes desultory. When he wrests a moan from Merlin, Arthur knows he needs to do more of this, so he takes them both in hand and strokes, feels the rise and ebb of Merlin's chest, sees the hiccup of his shoulders. As he breathes in and out of his mouth, eyes reduced to slits, Merlin's lips part. When Arthur's rough in one of his passes, Merlin grabs his face and kisses him, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth.

They can get off this way. With some persistence at what he's doing, Arthur could bring them off in under a minute. But that's not what he wants. He wants their connection to go deep, for this to be more than a hurried one-off in a hotel room. There's a time for tossing off, but that isn't now. That's something they can do once sex between them has become more of a known entity, something that can be done quickly without losing in feeling. Now, Arthur needs to pull out all the stops, cover all the bases, because he's hungry for it all and he feels like he'll die if he doesn't get the whole of Merlin right now. 

He realises it's probably a silly train of thought, but he doesn' think he shouldargue with needs. He lets go of their cocks and says, “We need something.”

Merlin seems out of it and his answer is slow in coming. “Look into my suitcase.”

Arthur is loath to leave the bed and its cocoon of warmth, but he really needs to do this. The clothes in Merlin's bag are not neatly folded, but he finds what he needs in Merlin's toiletry bag, which he keeps on top of his other things. Bottle in hand, he goes back to the bed.

“Help me do this,” he tells Merlin.

Arthur opens his legs, fitting Merlin between them. It's their fingers together that open him up, slow and laborious, blunt and burning at first, easier the more time elapses. When it's done, Arthur eases himself back down on the bed and pulls Merlin closer, his cock sliding between the cheeks of Arthur's arse. A shock of want goes through him at the motion. He realises how much he really needs this, how his desires cannot be stifled. It's almost painful how much he wants Merlin, how desperate he is at this point. Why has he waited? Why didn't he open up before? A lot of the waiting he's done could have been cut short. They would have danced closer and ended up here long ago. 

As Merlin enters him, Arthur reaches down to stroke his own erection. It's heady; the feeling of being watched while he does this.

Merlin presses in slow, in a measured glide that lights up a flare path inside him. His muscles tremble; his core comes apart. Lust overwhelms him. It wakes his senses, makes him conscious of the need inside him. He kisses him disjointedly as he tries to achieve full penetration, panting into Merlin's mouth when the kiss breaks up. 

Dragging his lips against Arthur's, Merlin thrusts. But it's a one off. He doesn't hurry right away. He isn't quick about it; he relishes the moment as much as Arthur wants him to. He's slow about his lovemaking, certainly attentive. For every homing in motion, Arthur inhales, getting drunk on the slow intake of air, grabbing Merlin by the flank. 

This is exactly what he's always fantasised about--the pace, the intimacy, the almost painful crest of pleasure that accompanies Merlin's pushing in. Merlin's intent on what he's doing, trapped together with him in the moment. Perspiration beads his brow and mingles with Arthur's, his breathing stumbling into moans of pleasure.

As Merlin's rhythm falters, Arthur strokes himself with more intent. When Merlin presses in again, his angle more askew than before, Arthur bears down and meets it, his body riding the crest of pleasure the motion brings with it. There's no holding back from participating; it's too good for him to sit it out. He wants to be part of this. He wants to seek out his own rewards even while Merlin works for them both. 

With Merlin's pace altering to a quicker tempo, Arthur surrenders himself to the tide of it. Merlin must have noticed his blissed out expression, because he picks up his speed.

Arthur can't define how good it is; how perfect it is. He can only lose himself in the instant. He warms inside until it crests and crests. It's raw and a little savage. It hurts as well as bringing pleasure. But it's the moment he's been seeking ever since this started. He comes with barely a rub from his own hand, just as Merlin changes angles and strains into a few more thrusts. They're erratic and short, more an instinctive working of the hips than a concerted effort. But it's nice all the same. It adds spice to the glow of Arthur's orgasm. When, arms trembling, Merlin leans in, the kiss is soft and fleeting. He drives into Arthur one last time, his body locking on a muscle contraction, his spasm easing as Merlin sobs it out. 

 

***** 

Their plane back is in the afternoon, so they spend the morning together. They have breakfast at the hotel and roam the streets of Venice one last time before they have to say goodbye to the city. They step into small churches and walk to the end of dead ends just to explore morsels of the city which usually get ignored. They have espressos in a small cafe and watch people pass by, making up stories for each of the pedestrians that glide by the cafe. They enter souvenir shops and take in the ware. They touch some of the stuff and ogle other pieces. They don't buy anything but for a carnival mask that Merlin likes. He says he'll use it for his photographs. 

Arthur puts it before his face, saying, “I'm Harlequin, pay me homage.”

“You don't pay homage to Harlequin.” Merlin snorts. “He's a servant. But you do look very fetching in it.”

“Oh, what a disappointment.” 

The flight back is brief. Little more than one hour. Merlin doesn't even have time to take out his laptop to work on editing the photos from the shoot. He'll do it at home, where he'll have all the leisure to do it as it ought to be done. They're in a taxi when Merlin tells Arthur, “So work's done.”

Arthur looks out the window at the passing cityscape. “It is.”

“I'm quite proud of it,” Merlin tells him. He's usually always happy with his work. While it's true that he prefers his more intimate output, his commercial oeuvre requires a lot of attention and know-how. If he can do well and do those he's commissioned proud, Merlin's satisfied. 

“You should be.” Arthur looks at him as if he wants to convey how much he believes in what he's said.

Merlin's flattered but that's not the point. “We're at loose ends.” Clarifying seems important.

“For now.” Arthur goes back to looking at the street. “A little bit of holiday time is welcome.”

“I was wondering,” Merlin doesn't know Arthur's schedule, but he's aware it's a little busy these days, “if you've nothing on tomorrow, you could spend the night at mine, maybe?”

Merlin's may be overextending himself. They've spent a night together and only one. it isn't a given that either of htem should want to spend another night together, but Merlin kind of wants to. It's early days, early hours in fact, but he feels like the thing they've got going has potential.

Arthur's head snaps back and he smiles. “Yes, yes, I'd like that very much.”

Arthur's already been at Merlin's once, so Merlin doesn't feel the need to show him round. He makes tea for the both of them, turns on the news on the telly to find out what's happened while they were abroad, a habit he's developed over many trips, and sits on the sofa as he would if Arthur were not there.  
He wants to act around Arthur like he would if he was part of his routine. It doesn't exactly work. He does some work on his laptop while Arthur watches telly, but it doesn't feel natural. Merlin's too conscious of Arthur being there. He wants to talk to him and entertain him; he wants to kiss him and take him to his room. Flashbacks of their night together play in his brain and every time he looks at Arthur out of the corner of his eye, it's to be reminded of their intimacy. 

Arthur isn't unselfconscious either. He throws Merlin glances; he's not very credible when he feigns distraction, when he acts as though he just hasn't thrown Merlin a come-hither look. In the end, they call an end to it. It's based on what seems like a mutual decision. They come together for a kiss that doesn't stop until most of their clothes are off. They move it to the bedroom then, if only because it's warmer in there, and disentangle each other of the last of their underwear.

Wanting to explore sex with Arthur from another angle, Merlin lets Arthur take the lead. Arthur is gentle but determined;, his kisses are full of passion, his embraces rough with need, his body heavy over Merlin's. But he's gentle when it comes down to it, when he puts his weight on Merlin and kisses him till Merlin forgets whether it's night or day. Arthur takes his time once he's inside; his pace is slow, that of a man who wants to taste everything. When he speeds up, it's because he can't wait anymore, because Merlin vocally urges him to, telling him he needn't hold back or prove anything, not to him. Arthur comes with his head buried against Merlin's neck.

After that, Merlin doesn't take up work again. He had meant to, but now he's too comfortable to even move from the bed. So they spend the evening there, kissing and cuddling and reading to each other before they both fall asleep, duvet piled on top of them.

The next morning, Arthur's phone rings early. Arthur buries his head under the pillow and mumbles, “Get it for me, please.”

Merlin has been sort of awake for a few minutes prior to this, eased by the warmth of the bed, and revelling in Arthur's presence in it. Answering isn't hard work at all. He'll tell whoever it is that Arthur will be available in a few minutes. That will give him time to wake properly. “Hello,” Merlin says. 

The voice on the other end of the line belongs to Gwen. “Arthur, I've been looking for you. You didn't answer your home phone.”

“This is not Arthur.” Merlin should probably have specified that when he got the phone. “It's Merlin.”

“Oh.” Gwen doesn't sound too surprised. “I see. I see it worked out.”

“What worked out?” Merlin's assuming they're talking about his relationship with Arthur, but that sounds a bit weird. As if Gwen knew. Which she can't have, can she?

“Arthur wanted to work with you so much,” Gwen says. “It's lucky that Nimueh's interference didn't work.”

“Nimueh?” Merlin knows her rather well. She's never made any bones about her ambition or about seeing him as nothing but a competitor. But he doesn't see what she's got to do with Arthur or all of this. “I don't get the connection.”

“She made a fuss with Bulgari about wanting to replace you.” Gwen's voice is more hesitant now. As if she she's started off on an assumption and is correcting it now. “Arthur placed a call and made sure they kept you.”

“I see.” Merlin's hopes concerning his and Arthur's new found relationship dash themselves. Arthur acted behind his back and failed to tell him. And it wasn't just that. Merlin doesn't know what to do or how to react. He made a mistake. He's always been above board with his work relationships. They were always professional, always above reproach. Now he's gone and broken his own rule. It's hard too because even now he can't find the strength to wish they hadn't had their affair. “Anyway, here he is.” 

Arthur takes the receiver Merlin hands him and starts a business sounding conversation with Gwen. Not wanting to overhear, Merlin moves to the bathroom. He cleans up and showers, then dresses. He doesn't want to be naked for the upcoming confrontation. He chooses a familiar jumper and a well worn pair of jeans.

By the time he goes back to the bedroom, Arthur's done talking on the phone. He smiles when he sees Merlin.

That makes opening up on the subject that much more difficult. He wishes he could keep quiet and go on as if nothing had happened. For a moment, he considers acting exactly like that, shoving everything under the carpet as though it had never had been. He'd have a nice day with Arthur. They could take the morning off and stroll around London, have an ice cream in the park and go to the cinema in the afternoon. It'd be lovely. But it's not something Merlin can, in all honesty, do. His conscience screams at him. He's quiet when he says the words, because he's not angry with Arthur – not at all – but with himself. “You made sure I had the Venice job.”

“What?” Arthur says, blinking fast.

“The Bulgari job.” He saunters over to Arthur's phone and picks it up, dangling it before Arthur's eyes.

“I just made one phone call.” Arthur makes a sign one with his hand. “To make sure Nimueh hadn't meddled with them. The contract was yours from the start.”

Merlin knows that. He signed it himself; that's not what he's questioning. “You shouldn't have interfered, Arthur.”

“Why?” Arthur asks. “I was only trying to ensure you were fine after a scheming conniving woman tried to take your job.” He points rather animatedly, his voice rising it together with his emotions. “I did nothing wrong.”

Merlin can see how that may under a certain angle be perceived as right, as an okay thing to do. If he had an ounce of self-preservation, perhaps he'd have acted that way himself. But the truth is that this world he moves in is cut-throat enough and he doesn't want to become like it. He wants to continue to call himself an artist, a person who goes after the essence of things. He may earn an obscene amount of money he doesn't really need or deserve, but Merlin has always found a way to work with that by donating to charitable institutions and not letting his morals be compromised. “You should have let it be. If Bulgari still wanted me after they were pestered by another candidate for my job, then I'd have been happy to accept. But you put in a good word for me.”

“Yeah.” Arthur's eyes widen with anger. “I told them you fostered a better work environment and I'd rather work with you!”

“Because you were biased.” Heat mounting in his face, Merlin glances at the unmade bed. “Because you had a thing for me.” The way Merlin had a thing for Arthur – still has, despite everything.

“What's this talk of bias?” Arthur sounds angry now. “I told them I'd rather work with you than a woman who plotted to get other peoples' jobs. I would have done it even if there was nothing between us.”

Merlin can accept that. Arthur's a good person. But his action is less than above board. “But you still did it.”

“You can't accept someone giving you a hand, can you?” Arthur says, his eyebrow rising. “The way you did for me.” He stabs at his chest with his thumb. “I accepted the good turn you did me when you scouted me. You were the one who got me into this world and I was okay with it. I was grateful. But you can't abide someone doing the same for you. You don't want to owe anybody anything!”

“That's not what it is!” How could Arthur fail to understand? “It's about fairness on the job.”

“So you'd have been happy to lose a job that was already yours?!” Arthur flails his hands about in clear consternation.

“Yes!” Why is it so hard to understand? The modelling world is already filled to the brim with shady characters, people who will do anything for fame or the right cut in a contract. Merlin doesn't want to come to any compromise. That's how he keeps working and contributing. By being honest, following his own rules of conduct. “I don't want to act like Nimueh!”

“She started it!” Arthur says as if that changes something, alters the situation in any way. 

“Well, I don't want to continue it.” Merlin shakes his head. “And you made me do it.”

“So that's what it's all about.” Arthur's upper lip protrudes. “About breaking up. That's what you want.”

“That's not what I want.” Merlin's never been quite so happy before, not since he was a guileless teen anyway. Ever since he started believing their relationship possible, he has had high hopes for them. It hasn't been long and it hasn't had a way to last, but he had put his heart in it. “I wanted everything.”

“I suppose it's too late.” Arthur hangs his head. “If you've no trust in me. We can't be much of anything, can we?”

There's so much Merlin wants to say. He doesn't want their end to be as abrupt as that. He doesn't choose to admit as much either. But Arthur seems to have decided for them both, to have already sought a way out of their quagmire. It must be because he was already planning getting out of the relationship, there can be no doubt. It's a downer. They might have worked on this. They might have figured a way out of their quarrel. But there's nothing to rescue, is there. “That's your take on it.”

“That's yours as well, Merlin.” 

After he's gathered and worn his clothes and picked up his luggage, Arthur leaves Merlin's flat.

Merlin has the impression he'll never come back. 

 

**** 

Arthur puts his key in the lock and turns it. As soon as he steps inside he finds that his living room is all lit up. Getting his mobile from his pocket, Arthur's about to dial the police when he sees Morgana cross the room over to him. “Arthur, welcome back!”

“Morgana,” Arthur splutters. He was not expecting her here. Ever since he's bought this new flat he's lived alone. This is like going back in time. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm flat sitting,” Morgana answers. “You wouldn't want someone to burgle you while you were away, did you?”

Arthur opens and closes his mouth several times before a sound escapes. “But how are you here if I didn't give you the keys?”

Morgana waves that away. “Oh, I called a locksmith. I explained the problem to him. How you were my brother and I was meant to flat sit for you but you forgot to give me the keys.”

“I didn't forget!” Arthur's not as absent-minded as all that. “I didn't want you here.” Especially now that he wants to brood a bit by himself.

Morgana pouts. “Aren't you dropping your bags?”

Arthur drops his luggage.

“I've made tea.” Morgana makes for the kitchen. She seems to know where every implement is. She must have taken her time getting acquainted with the lay out. “It's just hot enough. Do you want some?”

Arthur makes a face. He doesn't want lukewarm tea. He doesn't want to be here. And he doesn't want Morgana with him. He wishes he were still at Merlin's and that nothing had happened. But he can't forget the words he said, or the ones Merlin came up with. They're done and there's no patching that up. “No, thank you. I'll go take a nap.”

He makes a beeline for his bedroom door, but Morgana follows him. Not caring what she does, Arthur flings himself face first on the bed. The lighting in here is dim. It'll be good for catching some sleep.

But Morgana sits next to him and puts a hand on his back. “Something's happened. You're in a mood, I see.”

Though Arthur realises it's quite obvious there's something wrong with him, he doesn't want to admit to it. So he grunts.

“I see.” Morgana acts as though Arthur had opened up. “You know, I've been seeing Gwen lately.”

Arthur doesn't want to hear about his sister's successes in love when he's been so unlucky himself. He'd thought he'd found the perfect guy in Merlin, hot, sexy, professionally committed, mature, not a coxcomb. It was too much of the right mix. Arthur supposes he's deceived himself. Still, he feels all the bitterness of it, which doesn't help with being accepting of Morgana's triumphs right now. “Umph,” he says. 

“And I was there when she got Merlin on your phone.” She says this musingly as though she hasn't come to a conclusion about this. Arthur knows she already has. It's in her nature. She can't stay away from this kind of gossip. “I was so happy for you. I could see that you liked him.”

Arthur wishes he could say that's not true or that he doesn't like Merlin anymore. But that's not true. “It's too complicated.” That's a fact. Arthur's not lying. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“And I could see that he liked you.”

Arthur mumbles, “Not enough.”

Morgana goes on as if he hadn't interrupted her at all, which is, on the whole, typical of her. “I think he had a huge thing for you. You just needed to take a look at his photographs of you to guess you were the object of his desire.”

“Well, he scratched that itch.” Admitting this to Morgana makes him go mauve. “It didn't run that deep.”

“I'm not so sure.” Morgana kneads his shoulder in comforting fashion. “He seemed to really like you.”

“Well, I know he didn't.” Arthur may be exaggerating here. He knows Merlin had a thing for him, but he feels like being petty.

Morgana hums. “Well, the point is, I suppose, whether you liked him or not. If you didn't, this doesn't matter, does it? It's just a botched date.”

Arthur wishes it were that easy, that he could write Merlin off as a fling that didn't work. But he waited for it, made sure it happened at the right moment and for the right reasons. He'd put in heart in it. The response Morgana gets is not this close to the truth. It's a groan.

Somehow she seems to interpret this correctly. “In that case you should fight for it. Misunderstandings in relationships are the norm. I'd worry if there weren't any. But you can't let it fester.”

Arthur shakes his head in the pillow. “Our quarrel... It's over something that's really important to him: honesty.”

Morgana laughs. “Arthur, you're the champion of honesty, so much so that you can become downright annoying at times.”

“Not as much as Merlin,” Arthur said, spitting out a knot of pillowcase.

Morgana seems to be in a mood to ignore all of Arthur's meanest comments, which is unusually grounded of her. “I stand by what I said. If you're seriously into him, if it's not a passing fancy, you'll talk about it, give it a chance.”

“What if I try...” Arthur should have said 'put my heart on the line again'. “...and nothing happens.”

Morgana stops petting him like he was an overgrown cat. “It'll be really over, but then at least you'll know you've tried.”

 

****  
Elena and Gwaine lean against each other, back to back, arms crossed. They're both looking up. She's wearing a fluffy winter coat and a voile skirt; he's got on trousers that stop at the calves, a chunky knit waistcoat and a velour jacket that shimmers as he moves.

Merlin tries to call the shots, asking for a variety of poses as he always does. But today, he can't think of any striking ones, which is weird because he's got two wonderful models here with him and they're certainly inspiring.

“How about I turn around and slip my arms around Gwaine?” Elena asks, all concern.

“Hug away, babe.” Gwaine is always quick with the pick up lines.

Elena ignores him and looks at Merlin with questioning eyes. “I'm not saying you're not doing qwll. I mean you direct the shoot, you choose. It was just a suggestion.” She makes big eyes at him, pulling her hair behind her ear as if for something to do with her hands. “A friendly, non binding suggestion.”

Merlin realises just how much he's not been into it. Even Elena, who's a lovely model but has her head in the clouds, has noticed. While on the one hand he's tried to plough on, calling the shots, he's not really crafted any moments, hasn't really worked towards the perfect image, the one that would go on magazine covers and stun. The truth is he's been thinking about Arthur and their abrupt parting. He makes a face. It wasn't actually abrupt. Their time together ended because Merlin put a stop to it. 

He's still angry about Arthur interfering; he still thinks he shouldn't have made that call and have left things be. But Merlin could have reacted differently; he could have accepted that Arthur had acted in good faith. That is certainly true. Arthur doesn't have a corrupt bone in his body. If he just hadn't said that Merlin is incapable of accepting help, he would be feeling differently.

But thinking about that now is a no go. Merlin's at work. He should only be considering his job. He's never put less than his all into it and the same should be true now, however hard it is to take his mind off Arthur.

“You're right, Elena.” Hers is a good idea. Merlin should have come up with it himself. “Try that.”

She embraces Gwaine, putting her chin on his neck. The pose is pensive and romantic, very sweet, and perfectly suited for the label they're publicising. Merlin takes a few photos, registering the variations Gwaine and Elena play up for him. 

When he's got enough material he calls an end to the shoot.

Gwaine says, “Do we get to celebrate at the bar?”

Merlin wants to say no. He's got to go over the photos, retouch them, and send them over to the client for feedback. Besides, he's got his failures to think about. They're manifold and going over them will take time.

But Elena comes over, puts her head on his shoulder and bats her eyelashes. It's endearing, Merlin can't deny it. His heart does undergo a motion and he says, “Well, why not.”

The bar's in Soho. It has mirrored walls and shelves stacked with every alcoholic substance you can imagine and more bottles of champagne than you can count. A bona fide fairground horse camps in the middle of one of the lounge areas andcarousel cars have been carved into seats.

Merlin sinks into one and goes for the drinks menu with the determination of one who wants to get soused. “I'll have a screwdriver,” he says, “to celebrate the fact my life's screwed.”

“I was thinking of going for wine myself.” Elena stares at Merlin out of her wide green eyes.

Gwaine steals the menu from Merlin, gives it a quick, debonair read and says, “Safer not muck around with anything too froofy. I'll go for a Vodka tonic.”

When their orders arrive, Merlin takes a large gulp of his.

“So,” Gwaine says, relaxing against his seat, “what has screwed your life so much you need to drown your sorrows in drink?”

Elena kicks Gwaine in the sheen. “Shush. That's not a discreet question.”

“Fuck discreet.” Gwaine licks his lips of the remnant of his drink. “You know I have zero tact.”

“Unfortunately I do.” Elena sighs with her nose in her wine.

Merlin could keep things completely to himself and drown morosely in his sorrows all alone. He can see the pluses in that. Nobody'd know anything about his private life, which is the way it's been so far, and he wouldn't expose his feelings. But both Elena and Gwaine have guessed there's something wrong with him. He wouldn't be fooling anybody. So perhaps if he didn't name names... “I think I went and fell in love.”

Elena whoops. “Well, that's cause for congratulations, Merlin.” She slams her hand on his shoulder by way of a pat.

Merlin and his drink somersault in his chair. He's too busy trying not to spill to reply.

Fortunately, Gwaine speaks up for him. “Somehow I don't think Merlin's that happy about it.”

Elena's face falls. “Oh. How so?” She tilts her head to the side. “I thought everyone's happy when in love.”

“I'm guessing,” Gwaine says studying Merlin's face, “that Merlin's not happy because he was jilted.”

Technically, Merlin wasn't jilted. But that's not a point of honour with him. He doesn't care who started it, except he's aware he did it and blames himself for it. He had to voice his concern, tell Arthur how unhappy he was with his action. Anything else would have been a lie. And he can't live a lie. But maybe he should have stopped and listened, made sure he got Arthur's point. Maybe they wouldn't have wounded each other so then. “Something like it,” Merlin says.

Elena perks up in her seat. “I know the solution to that.” She waves her hand up in the air. “Waitress, another drink.”

Merlin's not quite finished his first, but he can't stop her; she's on a war path. 

“Believe me.” She puts her hand on his knee. “This is a sure remedy for heartache.”

“Yes.” Gwaine looks at his nails with an air of unconcern. “You'll forget you ever felt it.”

Merlin has a feeling he will regret it come tomorrow, but it's not often he lets go. He's always working, always doing his best, bustling to and fro from continent to continent, trying to make his employers happy, attempting to make a mark in the world of photography. He's allowed some down time. “What the heck, why not.”

Over the evening Merlin has more drinks than is safe to imbibe. He follows Gwaine and Elena from club to club and he pukes in the loo of one. By the time the AMs strike, he's completely soused and unwilling to ingest any other substance that isn't water. Dacing becomes impossible. His coordination is shot, not that it was ever that good to begin with. His short term memory has gone with it. He resigns to watching from the sidelines while Gwaine has fun--he has lots of it-- and a couple of lads try to entice him to the dance floor and the private rooms. They're pretty and they're nice to him, but that's not what Merlin wants, not what he's come for.

It's time for him to go home and accept his losses. He liked Arthur; he loved Arthur with all the breathless passion of someone who revels in the marvel of being so attracted to the perfect person, the right match. That's the bitter truth of it. He's not going to meet someone like him again any time soon. He screwed up his happiness. And while he knows he won't die of it, some of the spark, some of the zest of life has gone. He just wishes he could have a do over, that he could argue it out with Arthur again in such a way that would allow their relationship to continue.

But what's done is done and there's no changing it. Arthur's probably glad he's washed his hands of Merlin. He's practically called him a hypocrite. 

Merlin shakes his head. He's being maudlin now.

His brooding thoughts have taken him to the cloakroom. He's trying to remember what coat was his, it's not that easy with that much alcohol in his system, when Gwaine and Elena catch up with him. 

“You didn't think we'd let you go home alone when you're this sozzled.”

Merlin had frankly thought as much. Gwaine and Elena had been having their fun.

“I can hail a taxi.” This area is pretty busy, even in the middle of the night. Merlin's fairly certain he can find one. Shouldn't he able to he's got the number of quite a few private drivers. Generally he only rings them for work related outings, but he can't exactly walk home. It's miles away.

“Nonsense.” Gwaine says threading an arm through his while Elena does the same on the other side. “We'll take you home.”

“We owe it to you for making us look so pretty in magazines.” As she escorts him out of the club, Elena leans her head on Merlin's shoulder. 

Merlin can't hide that he feels moved; these two owe him nothing and yet are so ready to help him to the detriment of their night out.

Once Merlin's opened his flat door, Gwaine and Elena walk him to his bedroom. They take off his coat, pull off his shoes, and place the covers over him. 

Before Merlin's quite asleep, Gwaine leans over him and murmurs in his ear, “Don't worry. Arthur will change his mind.”

How Gwaine has found out that it was Arthur who broke his heart, Merlin has no idea, but he's too sleepy to try and wrest it out.

 

**** 

The make-up artist is finishing the last touches on Arthur's face when the runner comes to him and tells him he's on in a minute.

Arthur slackens and closes his fists, breathes out, and rocks a little on his feet. 

“Nervous?” one of the production assistants tells him. “You haven't got to worry; it's not very different from what you do.”

“This is live.” That's enough of a difference. As a model, Arthur has got nothing to do but pose. If a photo doesn't come out all right they'll photoshop it, or at worst bin it in favour of one featuring a better expression, a more alluring stance. Telly is something fundamentally different. Arthur's supposed to talk, make an impression, appear nice. He's not confident he can pull it off. “There's no redoing.”

“Well, they'll love you,” she tells him, patting him on the arm just as Arthur's name's announced on stage. 

Pulling his clothes in better order, though they were carefully arranged on him in the first place, he goes out and marches into the studio. As he walks to the armchair allotted to him, video cameras turn onto him. He ought to be used to his image being used by now but he has a different relationship with photographers than he has with cameramen and he can't forget his every motion is being captured here. 

Once Arthur has seated himself, the show's host, Mordred Bard, says, “So we have Arthur Pendragon here, model, teen icon, and traffic disruptor.”

Arthur chuckles. He tries to do it as smoothly as he can but he isn't sure he hits the right note, that he's as nonchalant as he's meant to be, as they've suggested he act. When Gwen told him about the interview, she said this was his chance to become a household name. He has to be personable, smooth, nice. “Not that you're not nice in real life.” She corrected her drift soon enough. “But you know, just paste on another layer.” When he hadn't look convinced, she'd reassured him they would love him anyway. “That's an urban myth,” Arthur explains, not sure whether he ought to look into the camera, or at Mordred. “There was just one pile up.”

“Because people were busy ogling the billboard you were featured on rather than paying attention to the road.” Mordred takes a gulp of coffee from the mug he has on his desk. “Bad people! You look at the road not at hotties on hoardings. That's traffic safety rule number one!”

Arthur nods. “You can do your perving on your computer at home, as I do.”

The in studio public laughs. 

Mordred waits for the laughter to subside before he speaks again. It's a well oiled mechanism clearly, and second skin for him. “That's your road safety for you, guys. Perv at home!”

Arthur lets the merriment show on his face. Mordred has good comedic timing.

Turning in Arthur's direction, Mordred says, “So, Arthur, you've been a bit of an overnight sensation. Can you tell us how your life's changed since becoming a model?”

“Well.” Arthur kneads his thigh as he speaks. He realises he ought to stop but it's something to do and calms him down. “I was a pub waiter so I was used to serving mash and bangers and trying to check the alcohol intake of drunk customers.”

“Were you successful?” Mordred asks, eyeing the public, encouraging their response.

“Most of the times.” This is nothing less than the truth. He only ever had one or two rowdy customers and he doesn't want to misrepresent the job. “But one threw up on me.”

“Oh my god,” Mordred says, shaking his head and huffing. “Arthur Pendragon got puked on.”

Arthur shows both his palms and shrugs. “What will you have; it's part of the deal.”

“He can't tease us like that, can he?” Mordred turns to the public and gets a booming 'no' as an answer. “Tell us how it went down.”

The story, while strictly true, isn't that funny. Arthur understands he ought to be genial now; that he ought to be amusing. He has no idea how. So he tells it like it happened. “We were near closing time and this guy was sitting at a table and had like four empty glasses about him. We generally swipe the tables even when customers are there, so he must have drunk them in a short space of time. All of a sudden punter stands up, all wide shoulders and Neanderthal man gate--” Arthur mimics the customer's upper body movements and the audience kicks off laughter. “And comes up to the bar, covering an hiccup and saying, 'One pint of'. Clearly opening his mouth was too much. He projectile vomited all over the place. Unfortunately, I was in his line of sight, like directly in front of him. The apron caught some of it.” His mouth twists downwards. “But not all.”

The audience emotes with him by releasing a booing sound at the notion. Mordred plays it up, making faces in turn. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur says, “it was pretty disgusting.”

Mordred slaps his hand on his desk. “But those days are all over now. You're a testimonial for names such as Calvin Klein.” Mordred shows the audience a cardboard enlargement of Arthur's very first professional photo, which Merlin shot. “Hollister Jeans and Bulgari.”

Arthur inclines his head. This is what he's here for. Gwen instructed him carefully. He's meant to build up a following--get fans for himself, which is going to help with his brand--but he's also supposed to publicise the labels he poses for.

Mordred waits for the public's applause to die down. He's good at that. He interacts with his studio audience in a smooth, seamless way. They enhance what the guests say while Mordred clowns up for them. “About that, you're just back from a shoot for Bulgari.”

“Yes.” Memories of Venice are painful, but Arthur's aware he can't let that show. Gwen made that clear. He's here to sell a dream, paint a golden image of himself and of the product. She said she trusted him to do the best work. “It took place in Venice.”

“It must have been like a dream come true for you,” Mordred says. “You're still relatively new and you're sent to shoot a campaign in Venice.”

It was a dream in more ways than one but no one knows that. Arthur was happy in Venice. He had everything he'd ever wanted. And that wasn't the job or the money that came with it. It was the person he was with. “It was a lovely location. I mean, it's Venice.”

“And it's reflected in the beauty of the shots.” Mordred points at the wide screen behind him, where images belonging to the Bulgari campaign alternate.

Arthur must acknowledge that it's true. The photographs are beautiful and it's not just because the location was dreamy and the clothes displayed all fashionable. They portray a dream world of charm and glamour, a mirror universe that's alluring in its aura of mystery. There's talent in the taking of them and that talent's all Merlin's.

“The photographer,” Mordred says, “is, by the way, Merlin Emrys, who's done this type of thing quite often.”

Most questions have been vetted by his team, as well as most topics, but this one is a bit of a surprise. Do the show's production people know? Do they suspect? Either way this is an opening to talk about Merlin, what kind of person he is, how creative. Arthur swallows. He's not sure he can do this without the floodgates of pain opening. “Yes, Merlin is... a fantastic photographer, a committed artist.”

Mordred nods his head and says, “And Merlin Emrys is the one that discovered you. How was working with him?”

Arthur should probably say a few platitudes about his professional relationship to Merlin and be done with it. His interview time is drawing to a close anyway. He starts, “Merlin is really easy to work with. He doesn't ask for the sun and the moon; he asks for a connection.”

Mordred acts as though he wants to speak again.

But something possesses Arthur to go on. “And it was easy forging one, you know, because he's a good man, one brimming with potential for great things. So you admire him and want to get close to him.” This is already too much. It's too weird. The audience is hushing and Arthur can tell they already think this is not par for the course. They're used to jokes and light hearted chat, not this. But Arthur's already in for a penny, he might as well. “And I did, I did get close to him.”

Mordred briefly looks at his at his script; obviously there's no cue for what is going on on it. He tilts his head, clearly not sure whether he should let Arthur continue or stop him. He doesn't make any sound though, which means he's willing to let Arthur go where he will with this. The light of curiosity shines in his eyes.

And Arthur might as well satisfy it and give Mordred his ratings. They don't matter to him; what he's doing does. “Sometimes I think it was inevitable.” He licks his lips. “And sometimes I think it wasn't. But it happened.”

Without his script to look to, Mordred looks unsure, but he still asks, “I gather you had a relationship with him. Is that correct?”

Mordred might not know it but he's helping Arthur through with this. It's not easy. Arthur's always been a private person; he's scarcely ever talked about his feelings with his sister, who's the person closest to him, let alone millions of watchers. But it's a sacrifice he's ready to make if it mends his life; if it gets him Merlin back. A bit of embarrassment is worth it, however public. There are priorities in life and this is one. There's no feeling lower than he has in the past weeks without Merlin anyway.

If the gesture is theatrical, it's still heart-felt; it's still fully genuine. He doesn't know how Merlin will react, whether he's even watching. This show doesn't feel like it's his thing, but even if he isn't sitting in front of the telly, he'll hear of it. 

He wasn't ready to listen when they had their row, but perhaps the manner of this confession will strike him, will make him pause, and cause him to lend his ear to Arthur's words. If Merlin just takes the time to understand Arthur, he'll see what's in his heart, which must count more than one single misguided action. That's not the sum of Arthur's morality.

Hoping he's doing the right thing, Arthur makes himself talk. “Yes, we did. And it amounted to the happiest moments of my life. It was... quite everything I wanted.”

“As I hear you talk,” Mordred says, “I notice that you're using the past tense to refer to your relationship. Am I right in assuming it's over?”

Arthur makes a sign yes with his head. Though he's being very public with what he's doing, this is a spur of the moment decision, a last throw of the dice. Words don't come easy because he hasn't prepared them; and he doesn't quite know what to say. He decides he should speak the way he would were Merlin here, address him, and only him, forget about the audience. “It is. Because I made a mistake.” Arthur's aware he has. Good intentions only get you so far. “And he made one too.” Merlin should have been readier to forgive him his faux pas. Of this Arthur's sure. “And what I can say to it is; it's true. I shouldn't have.” He doesn't specify; he doesn't want a lawsuit dogging his steps. “But all the rest should count for more.”

Mordred clears his throat. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this.” Arthur looks into the camera, thinking to address Merlin while he aims his words at it. “I mean that what's in my heart is very real. My feelings are honest.” And deep, he thinks but doesn't say. “People make mistakes. Some may be unforgivable; some are not. But one misstep isn't worth throwing it all away. The good things. The happy moments. The forthright love that...” Wow, this is getting a bit much, and putting tears in his eyes. He should probably stop; but he's already said most of it. Now for the final confession. He's not sure it'll get him what he wants. He doesn't even think that that's what he's trying to accomplish here. He wants just the truth out (and in what more spectacular way). But he certainly hopes it'll move Merlin; that it'll open up a dialogue with him. Because he can't bear thinking he doesn't get to do at least that, to clear the air. 

“That I feel...” Arthur wishes he had some water; it'd help untie the knot in his throat, though it wouldn't be able to do anything about his wildly beating heart. “Because I love you. There, that's it.” He frowns. Has he really managed to convey everything he meant to? “I love you.”

“Wow, that is so romantic. I don't think we'll have a moment quite like this again. Or that we'll get higher share quite soon,” Mordred says, inciting applause. “But I'm afraid we've run out of time, Arthur. It's been a pleasure having you. A real pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Arthur says, hoping he's not made a huge fool of himself, and killed his career. “Likewise, Mordred.”

 

****

Merlin is using the magic wand in photoshop and refining the selection, when the doorbell rings. It's Elena. Her umbrella is broken and she's dripping water. Her hair's as wet as if she'd just come out of the shower. 

“Elena!” Merlin stops her from wiping her feet on the mat and pulls her inside. “What are you doing here in this weather?”

Elena thrusts her brolly in the umbrella stand. There's not much that can be done to salvage it, but it's better kept there. “I need you to see it.”

“You need me to see what?” Merlin's already at the top of the stairs, heading for the bathroom. “I don't get it.”

Elena's voice reaches him from downstairs. “The video; that's what.”

Merlin takes a handful of towels from the cabinet and repairs back into the living room, where Elena is waiting for him. She makes as if to speak but he shushes her. He sits her down and dries her hair as best he can by rubbing the towel across her scalp. It gets sodden in seconds but at least it's absorbed some of the water she's soaked. He knuckles the fabric across her pate, then works the ends of her locks dry.

“As I was trying to say,” Elena says, “you need to see the video.” 

Merlin is still at a loss to understand what she means. Is she referring to some sort of publicity video? Or is it some sort of personal one? “I'm still not getting it.”

She roots in her seemingly bottomless bag and extracts an i-Pad. It's already on stand-by so all she has to do is unlock it. “Here.” She taps the video streaming app. “See for yourself. But sit down first.”

Merlin does as he's told. He doesn't know what he's expecting, but it's certainly not a talk show excerpt. Mordred Bard greets his audience and welcomes it for a new episode. The public clamouring, he names the guests scheduled to appear.

“Sorry, I'm fast-forwarding.” She fiddles with the controls. 

Arthur appears on the scene. With his tailored clothes, and styled hair, he looks good. Not that he ever looks any other way. At sight of him, Merlin's heart thumps in his chest. It's not been that long, but it's been a while and he's been missing Arthur like a limb. He's thrown himself into the job, but it's not been that useful. He hasn't forgotten him nor does he think he will.

At first Arthur banters with the host. He's personable and funny; radiates an aura that's alluring and charming. Merlin remembers it, the effect Arthur has on people. It was part of the reason Merlin thought him capable of being a model. He's not just handsome; he has that it quality that makes him relatable to wide swathe of people.

Soon, however, the discussion becomes strangely personal. Merlin doesn't understand the drift of it or how Arthur's agent's allowed him to bare himself so much to the public. He's shaking his head at the goings-on, when the topic shifts onto Merlin. “Is this why you wanted me to watch?” he asks Elena.

Elena pumps her head up and down. “Yes, but shush now.”

Arthur talks movingly about Merlin, taking his breath with every single word, punching a hole in his heart with every single sentiment. Merlin's ears roar and his heart hammers. His limbs feel like jelly and he's glad Elena told him to sit down because he doesn't think he could have kept standing. Feeling overwhelms him and he bites his fist so as not to let out any sound. 

The reason for his and Arthur's break up becomes less and less important to Merlin. It hurt at the time. It compromised his morality. But it pales in comparison with Arthur's feelings, the extent of them. He hadn't understood; he had failed to see. But now he does.

“Handkerchief?” Elena asks.

That's when Merlin realises he's been leaking like a baby. 

*****  
The trees are in bloom, the hedges are flowering, and the whispering grass is a vivid green. Squirrels toy with nuts, holding them in their paws, putting them in their mouths, filling their cheeks with them. Mothers push prams; groups of kids toss frisbees. Young men and women relax in deckchairs, their jackets open and their scarves undone, absorbing the first rays of the spring sun.

Arthur finds Merlin sitting on a park bench, his coat bundled at his side. The sight of him lets loose a volley of feelings inside Arthur, soft ones that sap his defences and powerful ones that lash his heart into beating faster, that kick his senses into overdrive. 

When he sees him, Merlin makes space for him. “Arthur.”

“Merlin.” Arthur looks down at his shoes, puts his hands in his pockets. “Fine day, isn't it?”

“Mmm.” Merlin tips his head back and lets the sunshine shower him in its rays. “I'd love to photograph it.”

Merlin hasn't changed, not one bit. Arthur didn't think he would have. Too short a time has passed since their break up. But it's nice to know some things stay fixed. “Of course you would. You love it.”

Merlin opens one eye. “We don't need to make small talk.”

Arthur knows that, but breaking the ice isn't easy, not in view of how things stand between them. He's made them uneven, unbalanced; he's opened himself up for all to see while Merlin still has the armour of privacy. Still, he's agreed to come here for a reason; he believes there's still enough common ground between him and Merlin. He still hopes... “So you know how I feel.”

“I feel the same way,” Merlin says. He cannot have known it, but he's put balance back into their relationship in one fell swoop. He's cut to the chase and put them on the same level, given Arthur his dignity back.

Merlin's thoughtful; that's what he is, and that's something Arthur can appreciate in him. But now, that consideration doesn't take centre stage. Merlin's confession does. Joy suddenly bursts through Arthur, warming and exhilarating. The pangs that contracted his heart go away, staunching the bleeding. The wounds he's been nursing all close up and leave him hearty and whole. He smiles. “I'm glad I'm not the only one.”

Eyes on the lane, Merlin smiles at the world. “I know how that works.”

Arthur nods. They've put themselves through a lot. They've been through an emotional wringer. “We should talk.”

Merlin leans forward, his elbows on his thighs, his hands locked together. “I've been thinking and I agree.”

“So, where do we go from here?” That's the question that has been on Arthur's mind ever since Merlin admitted to loving him. Now, waiting for the response, he's on tenterhooks. While Merlin's admission untethered the lighter feelings in him; it does not follow that his answer to the question will be one to positively impact Arthur's future. He could decide that they're not meant to be, that they're too much work. For all the longing that was there, they started off on a mistake, after all.

Turning a little, Merlin unlatches one of his hands and puts it on top of Arthur's. “We give it another try? If you want to, that is.”

Relief floods Arthur and he breaks into a smile. “I think that's one of the things I want most.”

Merlin scoots closer. “Me too. Trying is a priority with me.”

“So we're back together?” Arthur wants to cross the Ts here. He needs to be sure he's not experiencing this wave of elation for nothing. Letting himself hope for love and then getting friendship would be devastating. 

“Yes, Merlin says. “Let bygones be bygones.”

They come together for a kiss that's sweet and slow and a promise of good things to come.

The End.


End file.
